


in regards to fugue

by teaforest



Series: a song that's meant for two [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Found Family, M/M, most characters pop in and out, some needed closure on both their parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 81,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaforest/pseuds/teaforest
Summary: In the wake of those lost, something new is found. In the revival of the spirit, the flesh again grows weak.The time has come for these two voices to run counter, so that they may end together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the Japanese text has been provided by hovertext; for mobile readers, it's provided in the end notes. Said Japanese used are fairly basic phrases, though, so it shouldn't be hard to decipher from context.
> 
> Important Note: While I am trying to maintain a certain level of canon compliance (Episode 10's stinger/plot twist has been. _kind of_ retconned in with much less work than anticipated.) I am not going to claim anything for now. This will be more prevalent in later chapters.

"Nadya," Lilia greets, crisp and with the barest curve of a smile at her lips. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

 

"You as well, Lilya." The old woman sighs, but her composure remains steadfast. "And Viktor and his protégé? Where will they be at this hour?"

 

Lilia raises a finely shaped brow. "I see you have not heard. Victor is back in Japan, to see to some emergency. His student is under Yakov's care for the free skate tonight."

 

"You say that as if that menace tells me anything," the old woman snorts, the polite lilt lost to fond exasperation. It returns just as quick, as she continues, "Well, no matter. His protégé is the one I wish to speak to. If he's been entrusted to Yasha, then it should be simple enough to get him alone for a chat."

 

Lilia sighs. "Practice will end within the hour. I can arrange for one of the skaters who are not performing today to escort him."

 

"Good." She draws her shawl over her head and shoulders tighter, ignoring the protest of her creaking hands. "I want to know this boy my Vityen'ka is so enamored with."

 

* * *

 

It's different without Victor.

 

Beyond the obvious -- Yakov's silence, though unsettling, isn't nearly as intimidating as the shifts in Victor's smile -- Yuuri finds some comfort in the familiarity of losing himself in the movements he's strung together and the memory of his song in his ears. This will be the longest and farthest he and Victor have been apart since Victor came to Japan last April, and Yuuri already feels it seep into his bones. Yuuri knows his demons well, though, and because he knows them he knows how to work around them. Focus on his movements, make sure he's loose and fluid, block out anything that could weaken his defenses. He can do this, even without Victor here. He _has_ done this without Victor. He can do it again.

 

(If someone had stopped him at the Finals last year and told Yuuri that in less than a year Victor Nikiforov, who'd been so untouchable all Yuuri's life, would drop everything to go to him without hesitation, Yuuri would think they were delusional. If someone told him eight months ago, when Victor first swept into Hasetsu, that Victor would be so adoring and reverent with him, Yuuri would balk at the absurdity. If someone had told him that Victor, labeled among the world's top three eligible bachelors for six years, would look at Yuuri like he wants to promise him a forever…

 

Well. Yuuri is still trying to process that.)

 

Yuri is fierce and terrifyingly beautiful, and JJ is overwhelming in his pride and talent. Seunggil is sharp and calculating, powering through on almost pure technical skill, and Michele's devotion to Sara shines through every performance. Emil is easygoing and likeable, a combination that Yuuri already knows can win over judges and make the difference. Yuuri only needs to best two of them to make it to the Grand Prix Finals. He _wants_ to beat as many of them as possible, get as high up on that podium as he can, just to prove once again that Victor chose him for a reason.

 

Because it's _really annoying_ that people are coming solely to see Victor, even as a coach.

 

Yuuri knows, okay? He knows no one's happy about Victor's decision. This had been the wall between them for _months_ , because god forbid people act like they're justified to keep making jokes about Victor being so bored with his usual sex life he has to go hunt down someone unexpected or how Yuuri clearly needs the sugar daddy. He doesn't even want to touch the whole 'mail-order husband' debacle Phichit's been trying to hide from him since August when Victor's pictures and excited comments about Tanabata started making rounds online, as if Yuuri isn't going to notice his own countrymen snickering about how he's the Hikoboshi to Victor's Orihime.

 

At least Morooka is still on his side, as far as the professionals are concerned. He's the only newscaster and commentator who hasn't brought up Victor constantly, only when Yuuri does something that's specifically meant to invoke the man. The questions are still _there_ , Yuuri sees them every time the man comes up to interview him, but he keeps them stamped down in favor of asking after Yuuri's progress.

 

His quad flip is still so off-balance that Yuuri decides he's not using it tonight to avoid hurting himself, but he's not quite sure if he's going to stick with the original toe-loop or not. He needs this decided by tonight; Victor might have hesitated, but Yuuri knows that he won't leave Maccachin's side once he's back in Japan. Even so, he'll still be watching no matter where he is. Once he can land the flip for sure, under less pressure, he can work on refining it for the Finals.

 

A whistle blows, startling Yuuri. Yakov scowls at him and he feels his back stiffen.

 

"You're worse than Victor, Katsuki," he says, gruff. "Get off the ice, your time's up."

 

The "yes sir" comes easy, though it feels like forever since he's been under the guidance of a proper, experienced coach. He should eat something, wash up, and rest. Destress, don't overwork himself. Be strong, let Victor have these few hours to say goodbye if Maccachin can't hold on. Yuuri might be weak, but he's not going to let that make him selfish.

 

Yakov is gone by the time Yuuri steps off the ice and slips on his skate guards, something he would be more irked with if he didn't know that Yakov is a busy man with a fifteen year old protégé biting at the bit to grab gold. He doesn't need Yakov's instructions, not really. Yuuri knows how to do what needs to be done.

 

Still, though... Russia is a lot colder without Victor.

 

The venue's lobby is full of reporters when Yuuri steps out. They snap towards him, something greedy in their faces that makes Yuuri want to run back towards the rink, even if it means running into one of the other competitors, even Yuri. He'll take that awkward over a hoard of people sniffing around for a reason why Victor's not with him today.

 

 _Let the man breathe_ , Yuuri thinks sourly. He would have fallen apart much faster had he gotten this much media attention last year.

 

"Yuuri!" A hand grabs him by the shoulder, and he yelps as one of the female Russian figure skaters -- Mila? -- drags him down a different hall with a bright smile. "Come on, someone wants to meet you for lunch!"

 

"Me?!" He doesn't know anyone here well enough for anyone to want to sit down and eat with him. The ones he does know aren't… well. Receptive to that kind of thing.

 

Mila drags him out the side-door and shoves him into a waiting cab. She leans in and chirps something Yuuri can't understand and the driver nods and tips his hat at her. She shuts the door for him and grins.

 

"Your room first to freshen up, and then the café downstairs," she explains finally. She pauses. Beams a little too brightly. "Don't worry your cute little head. It'll go great!"

 

Yuuri's stomach churns. "Who is it?"

 

"Hm?" Mila looks at him. "Oh, you'll know when you get there. It's going to happen eventually, if you and Victor are half as serious as you look."

 

What does -- _he and Victor_ have anything to do with who Yuuri's being forced to eat lunch with?!

 

* * *

 

Yuuri showers quickly and grabs a fresh shirt from his luggage, pulling it over his head just as his phone buzzes.

 

It's Victor. Of course it is. The message is a picture of Maccachin with a small patch of fur shaved off his throat, gauze taped to the pink skin, looking grumpy and tired. [ _Just finished eating for the first time since the surgery! ❤ His throat needs a day to heal, but he'll be fine._ ]

 

Yuuri feels his whole body sag in relief, and he slumps down onto the bed. Maccachin's going to be fine. Not too happy, from the looks of things, but at least he's alive and will be well enough soon.

 

[よかったああっ], Yuuri responds, not even bothering to switch his keyboard to English. Victor knows what that means by now anyway. He'll manage.

 

As he finishes dressing, Victor sends another text: [ _You'll do wonderful, darling._ がんば!], immediately followed by a kissy-faced kaomoji he must've learned spending time with the triplets. Yuuri can't help but laugh, and he takes a moment to recollect himself before heading downstairs. Some things he expected when he finally allowed himself to accept Victor's affections, like the pet names and the endless amounts of PDA, considering Victor could barely keep his hands to himself regardless. Others, like the sheer amount of devotion and tenderness Victor would look at him with when the cameras were gone and there was no one but them to witness, when Victor Nikiforov the Living Legend became just Victor, leave Yuuri completely breathless.

 

It's only been eight months, he tells himself as he starts his trek back downstairs. Less than that, if he excludes the time he'd spent resisting Victor's charms. Sure, he's heard of people who completely rearrange their lives around each other in less time than that, but Yuuri has never considered himself to be that kind of person. He's always been so focused with ice skating, with his dream of one day being something like Victor's equal, that he's never had time to dwell on that sort of thing. The fact the two have now become mostly synonymous...

 

Ah, he's embarrassing himself again. He needs to stop doing that. Things like this are why people keep arguing that he's going to screw up the moment Victor isn't around. He refuses to prove them right.

 

The elevator doors open and he steps out, turns down towards the atrium of hotel to the café where his company is supposedly waiting. He doesn't really see anyone besides a few other foreigners too fearful of the deep snow outside, a small family shooing themselves back upstairs with cups of coffee and cocoa in their hands. The only other occupant is an old woman off in the corner, alone and watching.

 

Her eyes fall on him, and Yuuri feels something like déjà vu. Though his heart is heavy with longing, it's not shattered and barely put back together. Though snow falls, daylight glows white outside through large pane windows. Though Yuuri stands on one side of a divider, being beckoned closer, and his heart pounds, it's not shame that flushes his veins.

 

Recognition isn't in the deep red shawl draped over her shoulders or the velvet gloves draped over an edge of the table. It's not in the clean cut of her coat or the softness of the material. What gives her away is the long, knotted fingers tipped with callouses and the sweep of fine silver-white hair, sharp eyes a little bluer than the ones he knows intimately and the set of shoulders he could pick out of a crowd of hundreds.

 

"Hello, Yuuri," Nadezhda Pavlovna Nikiforova greets, regal and poised just as Yuuri would expect from a woman once hailed as the Firebird of Russia. "I believe it's due time we've met."

 

* * *

 

A bowl of thick, savory soup smelling strongly of meat is placed in front of Yuuri, who is sure he didn't actually order anything yet but isn't going to argue. A bowl of something much earthier is in front of Nadezhda, some kind of mushroom, both with the familiar barely-there sweetness of barley.

 

She's already ordered them lunch. Yuuri has just barely sat down and she's already ordered them _lunch_.

 

Nadezhda hums as she stirs the soup, allowing the steam to billow into her face. "It will do," she says, and takes her first bite. Yuuri scrambles to do the same, grateful she hadn't waited for him to say something. His own first taste hits him hard with the bold broth and soft potato, eyes practically watering.

 

"Thank you," he manages, his spoon dipping back into the bowl. He is hungry, and this is pretty much the kind of food Victor would be pushing on him anyway, meaty and filling so Yuuri doesn't feel a constant urge to nibble on something to settle his nerves. Also, if he focuses on the food, he doesn't have to worry about how to address the old woman sitting across from him.

 

Nadezhda has the same camera-ready smile Victor does, a slight curve of lips paired with an indulgent glimmer of eyes, though a big difference is that while Victor maintains an air of a kind and charming prince of a fairy tale Nadezhda has the demeanor of a proud and dignified queen who's seen her people through their worst. Yuuri's not really surprised by that. The Firebird of Russia is still considered one of the harbingers of their new age, a legacy Victor's continued in his own way. There's a reason Ketty wanted her autograph so badly, back when Yuuri commissioned _Yuri On Ice_ from her and asked for that little extra favor.

 

...Oh. Oh god.

 

"My grandson talks over you a lot, I'd wager," Nadezhda guesses, raising a single fine brow at Yuuri. He freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. "He does let you speak, yes?"

 

The flare of irritation hits Yuuri before he can stamp it down. "I don't need Victor's _permission_ to talk," he gets out before he remembers he's snapping at _Victor's grandmother_ and slaps a hand over his mouth. His face burns as she blinks at him, her other brow raising to join the first. Great. Not even a full twelve hours after Victor's left, and Yuuri's already getting himself in trouble. No wonder she thinks Victor has to approve of what he says first. "I'm _so_ sorry, Nadezhda Pavlovna, I didn't mean it like that--!"

 

He's cut off by her barking a laugh, low and raspy. "Ooh, there's that fire," she says, eyes glinting all too familiarly. "I was wondering. My sorochonok bores easily, you see. You had to have something to keep his attention this long!"

 

There are a lot of things in that statement Yuuri wants to take apart and examine later, but right now he's stuck on something else. "Your... what?"

 

"Sorochonok. Magpie." Nadezhda sets her spoon down, pats her napkin to her mouth, and looks at Yuuri with the same dry stare he knows he's seen Minako wear when he barges into her studio at odd hours to work off his nerves. "Sticky little fingers as a boy, that one. Pockets full of stones and bottle caps picked up off the street, finding rubles if his father or I so much as took our eyes off him for a moment, and the rosin!" Her hand flicks upward, long knotted fingers spread in exasperation. "I stopped checking drawers for rosin when I needed it because who always hid it in his room to play with? Vityen'ka!"

 

Suddenly, Victor's occasional bouts of fascination with Yuuri's glasses make more sense. "Is that so?"

 

"If he didn't have his ice skating, I shudder to think of how he'd entertain himself," she huffs, returning to her soup. "It suits him. The theatrics, the challenge. He's never had the patience for anything else."

 

Yuuri feels his stomach twist, and he looks down at his own meal. Yuuri doesn't know if he agrees with her -- actually, no. He doesn't agree with her. At all. Victor's been _nothing_ but patient with Yuuri, for all the trouble he's caused him from the beginning. And not just Yuuri, either. Yuri's temper, the press, Yakov's cold shoulder, the public that still doesn't think Victor coaching him is anything but a flight of fancy, that-- that _Yuuri_ is nothing more than some minor indulgence Victor will toss aside when he's done.

 

No one knows the Victor he knows. Not even his own family, it seems.

 

They finish their soups and the server takes their plates. Before Yuuri can open his mouth, Nadezhda rattles something off and shoos the server away with an elegant flourish of her hand. Yuuri can see the decades of practice in it, a lifetime of dedication and passion in physical form. No one looking at her hands could say she didn't devote herself to her craft, didn't work her whole life around it to perfect its reputation worldwide.

 

And of all people, she has the nerve to think Yuuri is a waste of Victor's time, too?

 

"You're wrong," he says finally, looking at her with his fists clenched against the table. Nerves, anger -- he doesn't know, and he doesn't particularly care. "Victor gets distracted easily, yes, but when it's something important he sees it through."

 

Nadezhda's expression frosts. "Which is why he's gone and left you here, in a country you're not welcome, for what I'm presuming is just that dog of his. There's nothing in Japan worth going back for, after all." The _you aren't that important_ doesn't need to be said. Yuuri hears it loud and clear.

 

"What is wrong with you?" Yuuri snaps. This isn't about respect anymore -- well, not respect to elders, at least. "You can't just pit two different things that are important to someone against each other and tell them to pick one at the expense of the other! He believes in me, he has _faith_ in my ability to get myself to the Finals even if he can't physically be here to support me, and that means more to me than having him here and both of us dreading the fact we might have to go home to a funeral. No medal is worth that, _ever_."

 

"So," she says, voice crisp and cool. "You're fine if he leaves you, as long as he's happy. Not much thought for yourself, is there?"

 

Something about that phrasing makes Yuuri pause, despite the kneejerk anger and twist of an old, ugly fear. He looks at her, brow furrowed as he tries to clear his head, and she returns his stare with a detached aloofness that seems eerily familiar--

 

Wait. _Wait_.

 

"This has nothing to do with me, does it?" Yuuri says finally, drawing back. Nadezhda's mask shifts, but it's all Yuuri needs for the flare of indignation to get its footing. "He's your _grandson_ , Nadezhda Pavlovna, not some run-of-the-mill blockhead! Shouldn't you be the one who has complete faith in him?"

 

Nadezhda purses her lips, but something sparks in her eyes. "Viktor is a flighty child," she insists still, "and though I love him dearly, he is nowhere near as self-aware as you have proven yourself so far."

 

Yuuri blinks, confused, and the server returns with two more plates, a baked fish for her and something that looks like cabbage rolls in front of him. This time, she waits, lacing her long fingers together and watching Yuuri carefully.

 

"So that means it's okay to go behind his back like this?" he asks instead of taking his fork and letting the conversation stew. "There's no way he knew you'd be here. He definitely would have said something before he left if he did."

 

Nadezhda, to Yuuri's surprise, chuckles into her hands. "I have my reasons," she says, breezy, and takes the cue to start first again. As she cuts into her fish, she continues, "Those, I will get to at the end of our meal. For now, I simply wish to learn more about the young man who's charmed my grandson so."

 

Something about her change of tone makes Yuuri's cheeks warm, and he ducks his head to start nibbling at his meal. He finds it odd that she's again picked something that Victor would have recommended for him, like she's aware of his dietary restrictions despite the fact this is the first time they've met. He's pretty sure Victor hasn't told her; other than a handful of brief conversations where she was relevant, his grandmother's never been brought up. He doesn't even remember ever hearing Victor speak much Russian on the phone, either, if he thinks back over the months.

 

"Yuuri Katsuki," she says, and Yuuri's head jerks back up to meet her assessing stare. "Considered Japan's top skater despite his slump last year. Reserved and quiet in interviews, but is quite lovely when he skates." Her brows raise again. "From only this information, do you really blame an old woman for wondering if yours was just another heart Vityen'ka would break? He never means to, no. But he's never thrown himself into anything but his figure skating. Everything else?" She waves her hand to the ceiling again. "Curiosities he wanted to sate. It's difficult to emulate feeling and emotion when you've never felt them yourself, and it's a vital skill when you're an performer."

 

Boy, does Yuuri know _that_. He doesn't have issues with _Eros_ anymore, thanks to... certain experiences that are not suitable for sharing in present company, let alone the public in general, but he understands what she's getting at. Still, "Nadezhda Pavlovna, where are you going with this?"

 

"Yuuri," she repeats, a hint of a laugh in her voice as she sets down her fork. "In case you haven't noticed, my flighty, inconsiderate grandson -- who has spent the better part of his career molding himself into that ridiculous prince charming character he likes to make himself out to be -- acts like an overexcited child on his birthday when you perform." Her smile turns a touch wicked. "To the point of throwing himself at you for the world to see because of some little impulse of yours."

 

Yuuri is very glad he hasn't got any food in his mouth right now because he's pretty sure he'd be choking on it. His face burns but he's pretty sure that it's a good burn, the sudden desire to bury himself in a snow drift aside. She laughs -- cackles, really -- and motions at him to keep eating.

 

Conversation shifts to a lighter tone, small inquiries about Yuuri's hometown and time in Detroit. Yuuri doesn't consider most of his stories that interesting, but still she nods along and interjects when she has further questions. When she asks after Victor's time in Hasetsu, Yuuri finds the stories come easier. Whether it's because everything still feels so new and he's absorbed every detail or because he's always been so aware of Victor that it's only natural to notice more around him, he's not sure which is the case. She does, however, laugh when Yuuri mentions that Victor's Japanese has improved exponentially since he first arrived, how he's now perfectly capable of casual conversations with Yuuri's parents with only a few stumbled phrases or pauses as he tries to recollect the necessary word.

 

"Everything comes easy to people like Vityen'ka," she mutters, looking fonder than she sounds. "It's good, that he's having to earn them for once."

 

Their plates are taken for a second time and Nadezhda's face is milder as she addresses the server again, who nods and starts to rattle off a list of words Yuuri can somewhat recognize a few of. Tea to end a hearty meal. Yuuri understands some of Victor's eating habits, if this is how lunch generally goes in Russia. The server leaves again, and there's some commotion in the kitchens as a different member of the waitstaff scrambles out the back and checks the displays before darting back in. More calmly, their original server takes down a tin from the wall and sets a kettle.

 

Nadezhda pulls out a white envelope from the folds of her coat, square and stiff. She sets it before her and lets her wrist settle over it. "Now, for the reason I wished to speak with you."

 

Yuuri blinks, shifting forward. "Yes?"

 

"The piece you commissioned for your free skate," she starts, curt, and Yuuri feels something cold knot in his gut. "It is very lovely, and for the most part it suits you from what I've observed."

 

"Is that so," Yuuri mutters. Of course she fed him first. She was fattening him up for a slaughter.

 

She twirls her fingers, as if she's tapping some invisible fingerboard. "You are bold and strive to push yourself to your limits, shown in the fast tempo and wide range of the melody, but you do not give yourself credit for it and instead see yourself as more traditional and ordinary, shown in how the melody does not hop back and forth in that range but ascends and descends their scales. The harmony remains steady and simple, if a little dour, another indication of what I assume to be the fatal flaw that everyone speaks of when your potential is brought up: the fact you simply do not have enough faith in yourself to succeed, but just enough to keep going." She snorts. "Interesting, if a bit bland on its own."

 

Well. She's not _wrong_. If nothing else, Yuuri's finally hearing what it was about the original piece that wasn't quite right.

 

"The piano changes for the better once the violin comes in," she says, and Yuuri freezes. "It takes more risks, bounces more from its routine and it makes the boldness stand out. New life is in it, and it makes those listening sit up and take notice. Even the harmony becomes a little more complex to support the changes."

 

Yuuri doesn't know if he wants this analysis anymore. This is a lot more than what Victor took from the song when he listened to it for the first time.

 

"Again, the piano is lovely," she assures him, smiling a crisper version of Victor's placid, ready-to-scold smile. "However, I must say: the violin ruins your performance."

 

The server comes over with a tray consisting of two slices of a honeyed cake made of multiple thin layers, cream, and a small bowl of sugar cubes. Two cups are set, and the familiar aroma of a strong, smoky oolong fills the air as the server pours them their tea. Yuuri barely notices. He stares, bewildered, the surge of anger from before resurfacing with vengeance.

 

"Nadezhda," he starts, but she raises her hand. The server says something about the check and she nods and waves them off.

 

"Don't misunderstand, Yuuri," she says. "When I say that the violin ruins your performance, it is not because whoever is playing it is a bad violinist or that the quality of the violin itself is low. Every note is played with confidence. The bowing is smooth even to my ears. The vibrato is placed where it would sound best."

 

Yuuri frowns. "Then what's wrong with it?"

 

"The violin sounds like 'Victor Nikiforov'." Nadezhda's face is distinctly unimpressed and the brittleness around Victor's name compared to every other time she's said it sounds intentional. "A facade of a man who has never known defeat or failure, a man who embodies perfection and charisma. It sounds nothing like my Vityen'ka, or the Viktor I'm sure you know by now." Yuuri blinks, dumbfounded. "As an ode to your career and the role model who led you down that path, the song is fine as it is. But as your story has played out for the world to see?" She shakes her head. "No. This is a performance where artistry needs to take front-and-center, not form."

 

This... is not where Yuuri thought she planned on going with her critique. "Are you saying," he tries, "that it doesn't sound _Victor_ enough?"

 

Nadezhda snorts indelicately, nearly dropping her cake. "I suppose that's one way to put it!"

 

Well. Good to know that both the cut-to-the-quick criticisms and the roundabout directions apparently run in the family.

 

"So, naturally," she continues, blithe, "when it became apparent that your relationship with Vityen'ka was not merely that of a coach and his protégé, I realized there was no way I could let such a lovely piano arrangement go to waste." She presents the white envelope to him, watching him coolly. "Let me tell you something I've learned over the years of watching Viktor, Yuuri: as your free skate currently stands, you _will not_ win this year's Grand Prix Finals. With this, I am granting you one last saving grace."

 

Yuuri takes the envelope with shaky hands, her words further knotting his already frayed nerves. The envelope is heavy, weighted with something far tougher than paper. Yuuri stares, first at the envelope in dawning realization then at Nadezhda. She only gestures to the envelope in response, a go-ahead as she sips at her tea.

 

He flips it over, sees the round clear cellophane window he'd felt when she handed it over and his heart skips. Etched into the surface of the envelope's contents in gold-toned ink is the title of his free skate piece, his name shifted to katakana instead of the Romanization he's kept using for simplicity's sake, a minor mistake by an old coach he's never bothered to correct. Below it, in smaller and cleaner font, is Ketty's full name next to both _Arranged_ _By_ and _Piano_. Next to _Violin_ is--

 

" _Nadezhda Pavlovna_ ," Yuuri breathes, looking up at her with wide, stinging eyes. He thinks he catches her smiling into her tea. "Aren't you retired? Why would you...?"

 

"I'm not so old I can't play something _that_ simple," she huffs. Yuuri can definitely hear the fondness in her grumbling as she adds, "Besides, that menace has made himself impossible to pin down. No one else would know how to balance his public persona and his true heart."

 

Yuuri can imagine it. He'll have to listen later to hear the changes, see if it inspires any shifts in his composition. Yuuri knows he's in for some rough waters tonight; he'll take just about anything for luck, and a remastered version of _his song_ by a legend in concert music who knows Victor better than almost anyone else on the planet is not something he's going to take lightly.

 

A piano piece about Yuuri accompanied by a Nikiforov, _played_ by a Nikiforov, _about a Nikiforov_. There are probably too many Nikiforovs for this and Yuuri finds he really doesn't care. After all, how long has Victor been part of his end goal, even if young Yuuri never dared to dream of anything more than a genuine, proud smile out of him?

 

"By the way." Yuuri starts, blinking as he looks back up at Nadezhda. She's half finished with her cake and tea by now, and Yuuri realizes he's left his mostly untouched since her initial critique. "Let's keep this between us for now, hm? It won't be used tonight, it's far too close for a change of music even if it is the same piece."

 

"So it's definitely for the finals," Yuuri mumbles, forcing himself to set it aside so he can finish his own meal. "But I still need to let Victor know though, don't I? He's still my coach."

 

Nadezhda flicks her wrist in a dismissive wave. "That fool grandson of mine loves his surprises so much, he can handle one given to him just fine. Serves him right for ignoring my calls for half a year _again_ , goodness!"

 

Yuuri flushes. "I'm very sorry, Nadezhda Pavlovna. I didn't mean to take up that much of his time."

 

"That's just Vityen'ka, Yuuri," she scoffs, amused. "Also, dear, you are allowed to call me Nadya. It's certainly less of a mouthful, and sooner or later you'll be calling me babushka anyway."

 

Yuuri chokes on his now-lukewarm tea, face burning.

 

* * *

 

[An email exchange between **Katsuki Yuuri (yu.katsu@email.co.jp)** and **Ketevan Abelashvili (ketty@email.com)** , as of November 21, 2014 6:00 PM MSK]

 

 **yu.katsu** 2:25 PM (4 hours ago)

How long has she been in contact with you? Why didn't you tell me?

 

 **ketty** 2:45 PM (4 hours ago)

look, I will forgive u for dashing my hopes re: Victor bc u r literally Living The Dream and ur big dumb Disney Romance bs has gotten me something even better than an autograph from the woman who helped spark the Second Renaissance. i'm buying myself dinner w that royalty money jsyk. best of both worlds. exclusive if USELESS (4 lamps. why.) knowledge on Victor AND good food + something no amount of money can buy

Also, I was under contract so I couldn't give you any heads up anyway. Now I have to wait until you USE that remastered track to go around advertising it.

 

 **yu.katsu** 3:10 PM (3 hours ago)

One: Disney romance? Seriously?

Two: How did she even get in contact with you?

 

 **ketty** 3:12 PM (3 hours ago)

Yuri I literally now have "collaboration with Nadezhda Nikiforova" in my portfolio because her even more famous grandson is shacking it up with YOU. That kind of shit only happens in Disney movies and you know it.

 

 **yu.katsu** 3:31 PM (3 hours ago)

Please stop. I get enough of that from Phichit. OTL I thought I was done with the "King and the Skater" soundtrack spam but no, he's been sending me MORE.

 

 **ketty** 3:49 PM (3 hours ago)

Friend I am tempted to do the same because THE WORLD WATCHED YOU AND VICTOR NIKIFOROV KISS LIKE YOUR FREE SKATE WAS THE CLIMAX OF A MOVIE

I JUST WANTED TO SEE MY WORK FINALLY USED AND IT GOT ONE-UPPED BECAUSE YOU TWO COULDN'T CONTROL YOURSELVES FOR FIVE MORE MINUTES

 

 **yu.katsu** 4:02 PM (2 hours ago)

thank you for the remastering i'm going to go die in the corner now

 

 **ketty** 5:56 PM (4 minutes ago)

Good luck! Know I'm cheering you on from a totally legal and legit stream. :D

 

* * *

 

Yuuri saw Victor's grandmother one last time before he left Moscow, in the airport lobby as they waited for their flights. Another shared meal, a simple breakfast, and she poked and prodded at him whenever he mispronounced something.

 

"All this Japanese Vityen'ka is picking up, and your Russian is still this bad?" she huffed, and Yuuri tried not to flush. "Next year, he's taking you home to St. Petersburg. Give and take, child!"

 

It wasn't long after that they needed to go their separate ways. Yuuri walked with her to the split between domestic and international, hoping to see her off before heading to his own.

 

"Yuuri," she called just as he was about to go, and Yuuri blinked and turned back. "There is another reason I call Viktor my little magpie."

 

"Why?" he asked.

 

She smiled, stepped forward, and reached up to cradle Yuuri's face between her hands. "Magpies are silly, flighty creatures that chase after every shiny new thing they find, but when they love something, they dedicate their all to it." Yuuri stared, gobsmacked. "Once, for him, it was skating alone, enough to make a long and very successful career of it. Now?" She laughed. "I think you know, even if you won't let yourself fully believe it."

 

Now, nearly twelve hours later, he breathes in Victor's cologne and the faint traces of the minerals naturally found in his family's hot springs that now cling to him just as they do the rest of Yuuri's family. The detergent his mother and Mari use with just a touch of the fragrant wood of Victor's dresser. A lingering trace of vinegar and soy sauce, probably something Victor picked up at one of the convenience stores while he waited. There's something sharp like antiseptic on him, too, a little stronger on Maccachin but the white patch at his throat is intact and clean, his tail wagging slow and pleased.

 

Victor's hair is all flyaways and the crow's feet under his eyes he normally tries to hide are plain as day, complexion so pale he practically glows under the fluorescent lights of Fukuoka Airport's lobby. He's messy and obviously drained both physically and emotionally but he's _here_ , with Maccachin, when neither of them have to be.

 

Victor smells like home, _feels_ like home, and it breaks Yuuri's heart only to completely reforge it.

 

This is a mistake, Yuuri tries to remind himself. He can see it finally coming around, teeth bared and gnashing. The end of their shared road's in sight and he needs to relearn how to live without Victor. Even if Yuuri pushes on after the Grand Prix Finals, his body's been through so much with his constant dieting and hard, taxing training. He'll be lucky if he has two years left in him, let alone the four he needs to catch up to Victor's legacy. If he hurts this much after a little over two days apart, how is he going to survive letting go of Victor if he puts it off any longer?

 

But like this, Victor's hands fisting the thick wool of his coat, Victor's content sigh warm against the bit of his throat not covered by his scarf, the tension in Victor's back under Yuuri's own hands waning as Yuuri hugs him just as tightly so he has time to will back the tears stinging his eyes when they inevitably have to move, Yuuri wants nothing more than to fight for him. He's _earned_ this, something worth more than any gold medal or redemption. He wants those, too, he always has, but that doesn't mean he has to choose between them.

 

(It's only been just under a month since their first real kiss, barely three since Yuuri's confession at the press conference, five since he started to let himself give in, eight since he burst through the doors to the outdoor bath and saw a face he never expected to see in his own home. Some people can rearrange their lives together in less time than that, but Yuuri has never been one of them.

 

Still, still--)

 

Yuuri wants that forever, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> [よかったああっ] : "Thank goodness", more or less  
> [ ... がんば!]: "Good luck!"  
> Sorochonok: magpie, diminutive (Thanks to [muchglove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/muchglove/pseuds/muchglove) for the assistance!)
> 
> Other Notes:  
> -The use of "Victor" in narrative/most dialogue vs. "Viktor" in Nadya's dialogue is on purpose. You'll be seeing more of that in the future. In a similar vein is Ketty's use of "Yuri" in her emails despite the use of "Yuuri" in dialogue and narrative.  
> -Nadya's nickname is a reference to [the Slavic mythological creature](http://lastochka-fromrussiawithlove.blogspot.com/2010/12/firebird-of-russian-folklore.html).  
> -Tanabata, Hikoboshi, and Orihime: Japanese festival that takes place on the seventh day of the seventh month (July on the Gregorian calendar, usually August on the Lunar calendar). It's basically a very literal "star-crossed lovers" legend featuring two people so in love they neglect their duties and have to be separated for all but one night a year, and only if the sky is clear.  
> -Yuuri's meal is [Rassolnik](http://www.ruscuisine.com/recipes/soups/n--47/) & [Golubsty](http://www.ruscuisine.com/recipes/meat-dishes/pork/n--651/). Nadya's meal is [Gribnoy](http://www.ruscuisine.com/recipes/mushroom/n--35/) & [Baked Fish Moscow Style](http://www.ruscuisine.com/recipes/fish-and-seafood/n--249/). Their third course is Russian Caravan tea (an oolong blend popular in Russia) served with [medovik](http://www.ruscuisine.com/recipes/breads-and-pastry/cakes/n--383/).  
> -Most of this chapter was written pre-episode 9, which made me nearly choke _again_ when the actual accidental proposal happened.
> 
> by the way I have a [tumblr](http://forestealites.tumblr.com/) if you have any more questions :v (I apologize for lack of content, I... do not get how this site works. At all.)


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep comes easily for the first time in three nights.

 

Victor wakes to the sun splashed against the doors, Maccachin snoring against the back of his hand and Yuuri's legs entangled with his. Downstairs, he hears Hiroko's bright voice as she flits between the dining area and the kitchen, Toshiya's hearty laugh as he accepts payments and offers rooms and robes, Mari's alto humming as she gathers laundry and plates for them both. A glance at the clock says it's just shy of mid-morning, late enough for them to be considered sleeping in; they must've been given privacy for the stress the separation has had on them both. Victor knows they should get up, knows he should ask Yuuri what Yakov's criticisms were so they can fix those right up for the Finals.

 

He only needs to glance back down at Yuuri, nestled in against his bare collar and an arm still loose around Victor's ribs, for those plans to fall to the wayside. He buries his nose back in Yuuri's hair, his own arm around Yuuri's shoulders pulling him closer.

 

Yuuri's birthday is coming. He wonders what he could give him, what could possibly be worth the well of feeling and desire Yuuri's revitalized in him. Everything material seems to fall so flat, but the idea of giving Yuuri nothing to _see_ how much Victor adores him doesn't even make it to the table. Yuuri needs reminders like that, even if he's not the sort to want for much. He'd been debating contacting Maccachin's breeder before they'd gone to Moscow, just to ask when another litter would come along, but after the scare they'd just had with his old, dear friend the idea makes him queasy.

 

There's also the matter of Yuuri's... well. Proposal might be a bit of a reach, he'll admit, but Victor's been doing enough of his own reading to hear what's hidden between the lines. He knows Yuuri well enough to understand that while he might have his impulsive outbursts he's really not the sort of person who's comfortable with absolutes. Until he retires, Yuuri says -- as if Victor is going to take that as meaning solely his career, after how empty Victor felt in those torturously long days they'd been apart. Victor's waited _too long_ for this as it is.

 

He wants it. Victor will admit that he's probably wanted Yuuri longer than Yuuri's returned his affections, but he wants that future more than anything. He doesn't care how long it takes to get there, if it's years down the line when Yuuri has no choice but to hang his skates, Victor will wait. It won't be easy, none of this has been, but it's more than worth it.

 

Victor agreed to take care of Yuuri until he retired. Victor, from the very beginning, has had every intention to do just that and more.

 

Victor knows what he wants. Up until last night, he still didn't know if Yuuri would agree. But now, he's sure that he made the right choice all those months ago, the small seed of an idea sown long before he saw Yuuri skate to _Stay Close to Me_ the way it deserved, the realization that there was still one last surprise he could throw to the skating world at large without compromising the spark he'd been slowly nurturing out of the public eye. Victor, looking back, wants to laugh in the face of that desperate man, tell him that he has no idea what he's about to get himself into, push him forward and tell him in complete confidence that he will not regret a single moment.

 

To think that despite everything, it's still come together like this, far beyond Victor's expectations and imagination. He smiles against Yuuri's crown. Maybe he should start considering rings, if he's this far gone.

 

...Huh. There's an idea. And Yuuri has no room to get embarrassed by it, considering he technically asked first.

 

That's obviously something to sort out the details for at a later point, as much as it makes him want to dart out of bed to start planning right away. His phone sits on the nightstand behind him, but to turn and reach for it would mean pulling away from Yuuri and that's the last thing he wants right now. There are always breaks, always other opportunities, but there are no guarantees that they will always be there.

 

(Victor can admit he's doing a bad job of dissuading himself.)

 

He can already hear his grandmother's taunting, roaring laughter, between the angry scolding and invasive fussing. All this time he's been shrugging off her suggestions, and this is the one he ends up fulfilling dutifully almost down to the _date_. He's almost glad Yuuri's decided to pretend that night never happened, no matter how much the realization stung at the time. That's less embarrassing on both their parts when the old woman inevitably prods them for details.

 

Oh well. She's old. Let her have her fun, goodness knows how little _she's_ had in a career that spanned six decades. She'll appreciate how stubborn Yuuri is, at the very least. Probably make some comment about how it's about time that Victor's finally having to work for something. He can't even argue anymore, because here he is, fully prepared to dedicate the rest of his life to Yuuri in any way he's wanted.

 

Now it's just a matter of timing. Can he wait that extra month to end off their Grand Prix journey, painful as it will be? Maybe as a birthday gift, though that definitely feels too soon, not to mention all the training they have to keep up until their flight to Barcelona. Besides, surprising Yuuri on international television once is probably enough excitement for one year. Can't have something like that get stale.

 

Yuuri's arm tightens its hold, and despite already being so close Victor allows Yuuri to pull him flush. His chin lifts to accommodate, hooking over Victor's collar and sighing, soft and warm, into Victor's ear. Despite of the new weight on his jaw, Victor can't help but smile.

 

"Good morning, darling," Victor murmurs, and Yuuri grumbles something unintelligible in response. Ah, Victor is especially fond of morning Yuuri. He's such a mixed bag of responses, only reverting back to his native politeness once he's splashed water on his face and pulled a proper shirt over his head. "Did you sleep well?"

 

"You're here," Yuuri finally manages. He traces his routine along the planes of Victor's back, lazy and gentle. "That's enough."

 

* * *

 

 

"Yuuri," Mari says pointedly, and Victor can feel his fiancé (oh, the thrill that shoots through him at the word!) stiffen next to him. "You got a big day tomorrow, so go to sleep early."

 

Yuuri's hands clench around the bags they're still carrying around from earlier today, a look flitting through his eyes Victor can now recognize as meaning, ' _I am so confused and it worries me_ '. "Is it really that late? I didn't think so--"

 

Mari stares at Yuuri, raising a dull, questioning brow at him. Yuuri promptly clicks his jaw shut and reaches for the rest of the bags Victor's holding, looking up at him a little pale and apologetic.

 

"Oh, stop worrying," Minako huffs, clapping a hand to Yuuri's shoulder. "Your parents love him. They're not going to say _no_."

 

If possible, Yuuri stiffens more. Victor blinks as Yuuri's eyes dart to him, panicked, a flush creeping into his ears again. It's charming, but Yuuri's been so tense and embarrassed all day and after how completely at ease they've been with each other these past two weeks it seems... well. Odd.

 

Minako shoves Yuuri bodily towards the elevators when he hesitates a moment too long. Yuuri squeaks out an apology to him and gives Minako and Mari one last look somewhere between exasperated and concerned before the doors close on him, taking him away and back up to their room.

 

Minako turns around and stalks back, looks Victor up and down, and says bluntly, "Before you call Yuuri's parents to ask for permission, you should call your parents for theirs."

 

Victor stares. "Excuse me?"

 

"It's very traditional and old-fashioned and neither of them really care that much," Minako explains. "But considering how fast you and Yuuri are going, you're going to need every advantage you can get."

 

Mari snorts. "The regulars' betting pool is on the line here and that's what Dad really cares about."

 

"I have a bid, too," Minako mutters. "And I'm going to _lose_ , dammit." She squints up at Victor, eyes flashing irritably. "Why couldn't you wait a few more days? I had _ten thousand yen_ on you proposing when Yuuri finally asked you what the hell your coaching fee was!"

 

Victor stares, dumbfounded. "I know I tease him a lot, but really, Minako? That's just mean." Has he been that over the top? He knows he was a little too eager to learn more about Yuuri when he first arrived, but still...

 

"That's what _I_ said," Mari grumbles. "And you're out of the running now, by the way. No interference."

 

Minako scowls. "What does it matter? I'm already out, because they're _already engaged_."

 

"So," Mari says, tapping her foot. "You going to call? Or should I do it for you?" Her eyebrow raises. "Because I don't care how little English they speak, I _will_ do it if you don't and that's not going to reflect well on you."

 

Victor blinks, the start of a frown tugging at his lips. "I appreciate the offer to help, but it's unnecessary."

 

"Look, Victor," Mari sighs. "I know this sounds stupid to a foreigner, but family means a lot to us. If _your_ folks aren't okay with you getting married, then why should mine and Yuuri's be?"

 

"I'm saying it's unnecessary because it's impossible," Victor says. He doesn't elaborate, lets the meaning sink in.

 

Minako is the first of the two, and the regret and embarrassment is immediate. She presses a hand to her mouth, glances away to avoid meeting Victor's cool stare. "Oh."

 

"Oh?" Mari echoes. Minako hisses a low ' _Think_ , Mari-chan!' at her before her own eyes widen and she blinks, stunned. "Oh."

 

'Oh' about covers it, really. There's really not much else to add. If they're that insistent on trying to get family permission there is still his grandmother, but he's sure that she'll find a way to come here on a red-eye to meet Yuuri herself before making any decision, and Yuuri does not need stress of that caliber right before the biggest competition of his life. Victor loves his grandmother and knows that she's kind at heart, but he also knows what she's like before she graces anyone with that kindness. She's brought more than her fair share of egos down to their knees, crushed thousands of hearts with a snub, created seas with the tears she's drawn in both her professional and her personal life. She's a beacon of hope and is respected as such, but she was forged in an era where there was little and Victor, though he knows her softer side better than anyone else in the world, simply doesn't trust her.

 

(There is a reason Victor is so kind and good to his fans, no matter how out of hand they can sometimes get.)

 

Yuuri deserves better than getting caught up in that. Victor can only give him what he has and that is himself, heart and body and soul. In all honesty Yuuri already owns them in all but law; the ring on his finger is a physical representation of that, the very symbol Victor's been wanting to give him for weeks. For that reason, Victor can't let his grandmother know until they're already married, after Victor's already set his decision in stone.

 

Maybe it's selfish, but he doesn't care. Victor's been called far worse over the years.

 

There's a look in Mari's eyes that Victor isn't sure he likes. She pulls out her own phone and, maintaining her eye contact with Victor, hits a button on speed-dial. Minako raises a brow, her face somewhere between surprised and impressed.

 

"Really? Now?" she asks Mari, who nods sharply. "It's a nine-hour time difference. Surely they're busy getting everything set up for tomorrow?"

 

"They'll make time for this." Mari shoves the ringing phone at Victor, eyes hard. "Ask," she says. "You being an orphan makes some sense, but it's not getting you off the hook."

 

Victor shrugs. "I can guarantee you that Yakov doesn't care that much about my personal life, either, so there's really no one that can speak for me." Still, he takes the phone as the line picks up and Toshiya's voice crows a cheery good morning to Mari. "Ah, sorry, Toshiya. It's me."

 

" _Ah, Victor!_ " Toshiya greets, just as bright. " _It's late over there, isn't it? Is Yuuri having trouble sleeping again?_ "

 

"No, nothing like that," Victor laughs. "He's nervous, yes, but it's under control."

 

Toshiya booms a laugh. " _It wouldn't be a competition for Yuuri if he wasn't!_ " Something Victor knows and would like to keep improving on, but Yuuri's come such a long way in just the span of a few months that he can't find fault with that. " _So, what did you need to talk to me about? Mari's kind of blunt, but this is new even for her._ "

 

Mari rolls her eyes at her father's jibe. Victor smiles, fond, if only to ignore the odd twist of something strange and familiar in his throat.

 

"Yes, about that," Victor starts. He glances down at his ring, the gold brighter than anything he's won over the years. "I do have something very important to ask you."

 

There's a pause, only broken by Toshiya's faint hum. " _Hold on,_ " he says, and pulls away from the phone to call out Hiroko's name.

 

Victor blinks at Minako and Mari. Minako mouths, "He knows," at him.

 

He hears the shuffling as Hiroko comes into the office with Toshiya, her voice soft and bright. The receiver on their end is muffled, but Victor can still hear her gasp and Toshiya's chuckle, the two of them sharing hushed conversation too fast for Victor to pick up anything.

 

" _Vicchan?_ " Hiroko eventually says into the phone, and Victor can hear how palpable the excitement is in her voice. " _Are you still there?_ "

 

"I am," Victor assures her. And then, because he can't resist: "I suppose you have the books?"

 

Toshiya swears. " _Which of them told?_ " he demands, more bemoaning than upset. " _Well, no matter. They must be out of the running if they bothered to tell you about it._ "

 

Minako pulls a face at the phone. Mari sneers and rubs her fingers together in front of Minako's face. Victor supposes she still has money in the pot she can collect.

 

There's a click of a pen over the receiver, and Toshiya says, " _Okay, just for the pool: who asked and how?_ "

 

No wonder they wanted Yuuri gone for this. Not just because this is Victor's duty, but because he'd be mortified by all this. Victor clears his throat. He could just claim the airport, but... "Yuuri. He claimed it was a good luck charm for him tomorrow, but..."

 

" _Hah_!" Mari cheers, so much louder than Victor's ever heard from her that he nearly drops the phone. "I _told_ you he'd be too impatient to wait for this guy and do it himself, then chicken out at the last minute!"

 

There's a chorus of swears in varying levels of crudeness, some much further away than others. A few of the early-birds must have already shown up.

 

Hiroko takes over the phone as Toshiya brightly announces a grand total of eighty thousand yen to Mari. " _So, Vicchan, you called to ask something of us. What is it you want?_ "

 

Victor breathes. This is it, that rush in his veins and the flush of warmth he's come to associate with Yuuri, something that he'll have now for the rest of his life. His heart thrums, and he relishes in it.

 

"I want to marry Yuuri," he says, firm and sure.

 

They're quiet again, weighing his words.

 

Then, Toshiya, just as firm: " _This isn't some publicity stunt on your part, is it?_ "

 

Victor blinks, staring at the phone in shock. "No! I would never!" Honestly, twice in the span of five minutes -- is that _really_ the impression he gives off?

 

" _Honey, let me try._ " Hiroko says this time, gentler, " _We know how much you care about Yuuri, Vicchan. We've seen it ourselves, and we've never seen him happier than he is with you. But you had a life before him, one you were obviously happy with for a long time, and Yuuri may be the right age for marriage but he's still so young in many other ways. Are you sure about him, truly? Because I don't think his heart could take it if you aren't._ "

 

Victor frowns, not expecting how much this would sting. It isn't helped by Mari and Minako nodding along to Hiroko's words, despite their encouragement to Yuuri only minutes ago. He can't fault them, not really, even if it sounds sour to his ear. This is essentially why they warned him to have support before asking for something so valuable.

 

For all it's an obstacle Victor hadn't anticipated, it's one that makes a small part of his heart still left neglected warm.

 

"I'm more sure of him than I've been of anything," he says with no hesitation. There's no need. Yuuri is everything embodied in his free skate music, a grand piano left out of tune for so long he's forgotten how beautiful he truly is, and once properly in working order has been there, solid and steady as Victor moves around him, adjusting himself to Yuuri's pace and occasionally providing the push forward in a call-and-response, a duet that's culminated into this moment and what lies beyond it. Victor could not have been able to retune himself without Yuuri, and it was with Victor's background and knowledge and passion that he could help Yuuri retune as well.

 

He owes Yuuri so much. He can only give himself more time to be with him, just to begin to repay him.

 

Toshiya hems and haws, and Victor can hear him scratch his jaw. " _But why now? You could have asked when you two came home, couldn't you?_ "

 

Mari takes over, deadpan, "Because this idiot admitted at dinner he plans on marrying Yuuri as soon as possible, that's why."

 

Victor, to his credit, does not blush at the accusation. It's a near thing, but after the shock of learning that Yuuri remembered _nothing_ of last year's Banquet, he highly doubts anything anyone has to say in the near future will phase him.

 

" _Oh!_ " Hiroko, interestingly, does not sound nearly as shocked as Toshiya and his low ' _eh?!_ ' do. " _That's very bold of you, Vicchan._ "

 

" _We do get to celebrate your marriage anyway, right?_ " Toshiya asks. " _Give us some time for that. We'll have a private ceremony and a big party!_ "

 

Mari makes a face. "Dad, that's going to be expensive. And messy!"

 

" _Well, you basically gave up dating and don't want an oimai set up,_ " he says flippantly. " _So since Yuuri's getting married we can funnel what's saved up into him!_ "

 

Mari squints at the phone, not quite scowling but nearly there. "You have a fund for that?"

 

" _With two kids and a business to run, of course I do,_ " Toshiya huffs. " _Can't say I expected Yuuri to marry first, but since he's happy and Victor takes good care of him..._ "

 

Hiroko laughs, bell-like and teasing. " _Don't worry, Mari dear. I won't let him spend it all on Yuuri._ "

 

Mari stares at the phone, looks up at Victor. She makes a face at him, something like disgruntled bewilderment, and walks off in a huff. Minako sighs, a hand to her face.

 

"At least she won the pool, but poor Mari-chan," Minako says, sighing. "I don't blame her, really. Yuuri got really lucky getting a catch like you, Victor."

 

Victor looks at his ring. He thinks of everything he's done to get to this point: the long nights staring at a handful of pictures of a stranger who'd sparked something in Victor's soul, the days spent learning Yuuri as he was as that attraction slowly smoldered into real affection, the reignition of a brilliance Victor thought he'd lost under the weight of his name as the affection became adoration became need and want and everything in between.

 

"I'm the lucky one," Victor says, to Minako, to Yuuri's parents still listening on the phone, to anyone who's doubted the magnitude of Victor's words and actions ever since he saw that video and realized he could not risk letting Yuuri slip away again. "I don't even recognize the man I used to be before him, and I don't ever want to be that man again."

 

* * *

 

Yuuri's hands are reverent as they've always been when he removes the costume from its garment bag. He's careful as he inspects it, fingers the fine mesh for frayed thread and the silver crystal for chips, smooths out the satin of the solid fabric. Of course he finds none, because Yuuri is just as careful when he puts it away. Victor knows by now that this is less awe and more fondness, something to help anchor Yuuri before the competition. Even Victor's memories of his old, dreamy _Ad Astra_ routine are half overwritten with the spice and smoke of _On Love: Eros_ , what used to be Victor's long hair like the tail of a comet across the ice now Yuuri's dark eyes, ensnaring and coy.

 

(This was once the man who underestimated his charms so much he'd had to use his favorite food as his inspiration. Now, they have to remind themselves not to get carried away, not to let Yuuri win this game before it's even begun for the crowd.)

 

There's something far more intimate about helping someone dress, Victor's learned. By the nature of his family's business Victor's seen Yuuri undress so often, long before he'd been granted the right to touch, that Yuuri peeling off his shirt and pants is simply part of their routine. He takes them as Yuuri hands them over, folding them over his arms and putting them aside. It's as Yuuri unzips the costume and slips it off its hanger that Victor's blood starts to thrum in his veins, the craving for a taste he's still parsing every time he goes in for a kiss flaring.

 

Victor draws closer as Yuuri steps into it, pulling the fabric over his legs and letting the soft material mold to their shape. Victor's hands are there to help keep it at his waist as Yuuri gingerly threads his fingers through the holes in the sleeves, drawing them up his arms until the body of the costume drapes loosely over his torso.

 

This is where Yuuri stops. A raised chin, a subtle turn of the head. This is where Victor looks at Yuuri, a question in his eyes, and Yuuri requests, more timid than he actually is: "Help me get the back?"

 

And Victor's hands move up as he responds, just as soft, "Of course."

 

They both know this by heart, no notes or directions necessary to maintain their rhythm and flow. What started back at the Onsen on Ice Exhibition as Yuuri, flustered and still self-conscious enough about his weight to feel uncomfortable zipping himself up, has become part of their routine, a show of trust Yuuri allows Victor he wouldn't for anyone else. At the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship, when Yuuri had asked again, Victor had been stunned enough Yuuri almost took it back. At the Cup of China, the look in Yuuri's eyes had been half teasing, half impatient, a huff of a reminder that drunk Victor's actions had gotten them in some trouble the night before and this was the least he could do to make up for it. At the Rostelecom Cup only a few weeks ago, it'd been a little like this, comfortably charged as they went through the motions, like Victor didn't have intimate knowledge of the sensitivity of Yuuri's spine and Yuuri feigned innocence when Victor's fingertips lingered.

 

This is Victor arming Yuuri with the reassurance that though Yuuri will be out there alone, performing for thousands, Victor is the one who knows what lies beneath the smoke-dark fabric and facade of a serial flirt. This is Victor, bolstering Yuuri's innate boldness with some of his own.

 

Victor drags a knuckle and the pad of his thumb along the line of the zipper to steady it, a knowing half-smile at the flush creeping into the tips of Yuuri's ears. He pauses between Yuuri's shoulder blades, long enough to make Yuuri turn his head a little more with a confused glance. Victor's smile softens, only to press it to the exposed nape of Yuuri's neck.

 

Yuuri's breath hitches and he leans back into the touch, even as he grouses, " _Victor_ , not here!"

 

Victor huffs a low laugh against Yuuri's skin, thoroughly enjoying the reaction. "You're so tense, Yuuri."

 

"Someone's going to barge in," Yuuri says. "And after last night, they're going to assume the worst since I'm still not dressed."

 

"It wouldn't be the first time."

 

Yuuri groans, burying his face in his hands. Victor can't help his grin when he sees the dressing room's fluorescent light glint off Yuuri's ring in the mirror. "Please stop talking about that," he whines. "That's the _exact_ reason I mostly avoid drinking. It's embarrassing!"

 

"What a story for the children," Victor hums. "Your father swept me off my feet in a night of passion and then didn't remember a moment of it afterward, he was so drunk. I pined for months, thinking he regretted it."

 

"Considering you didn't even recognize me as a competitor the day before that, _sober_ , I think we're even," Yuuri grumbles. "And stop talking about kids. You're getting way ahead of yourself!"

 

"Fine, fine." He presses one last kiss to Yuuri's skin before pulling away. The last few inches of the costume zip up cleanly, and with the last snap the seam disappears into the tailored lines.

 

Yuuri turns around, tilting his head up to meet Victor's eyes. The blush stains the crest of his cheekbones, and even with only his costume ready he still looks like he could dominate the ice with his feathery hair loose and his glasses softening his face. Still, though, Yuuri has an image to maintain. Victor reaches up to remove Yuuri's glasses and tucks them into his coat pocket, safe and protected in a case Victor's been keeping on him since competitions started.

 

Yuuri makes another face, but it's one of dry amusement. "Are my glasses really that interesting to you?"

 

Victor smiles, the picture of innocence. "You do keep losing them. I'm just keeping them safe."

 

Usually from here, Yuuri takes over his own touch-ups and hair. It's another little bit of control for him, something else to help settle his nerves. Today, though, Yuuri reaches behind him for the makeup bag and pushes it into Victor's hands.

 

He looks down at the bag, then looks back up at Yuuri. Yuuri, still flushed, nods.

 

Victor tugs at his gloves, finger by finger until they're sliding off and he leans forward to set them on the counter. His own ring glints in the dressing room's light as he fishes out the light foundation and toner, and out of the corner of his eye Victor catches Yuuri tracking it with something glimmering and awed in his own. Victor can't help the smile that warms his face. Yuuri is sneaky in his own ways, when he wants to be.

 

He only uses a dab on his fingers, nothing more; it's enough to smooth out Yuuri's tone and cover any blemishes, and as most of Yuuri's supplies are from Minako they're of excellent quality and last under duress. From there, Victor takes the eyeliner and traces the curve of Yuuri's lids, thickening the lush of his lashes and giving them the illusion of length. Yuuri stands still through this, dutifully not flinching away from the point of the pencil or the coolness of the foundation.

 

Victor brushes his thumb over Yuuri's lips after setting down the rest of the makeup, thinking. This is it, Yuuri's final performance of _Eros_ for the Grand Prix. As refined as it's become, as wonderfully as it tears at Victor's impulse control, for this grand finale it needs just a little bit more _oomph_.

 

"Victor?" Yuuri breathes, eyes soft and questioning. God, Victor still drowns in them as much as he had the first time he'd gotten a good look at them. He's so used to the gleam of gold that it's lost its allure, but Yuuri's eyes lean more towards red tones, rich in vibrancy and depth he's found lacking in his own life until recently.

 

They'll be fine. The Yuuri before him is more than the sum of the stranger who'd stolen a part of him and disappeared into the ether, of the skittish man he'd found after months of wondering, of the shaky confidence Victor's been nurturing every chance he gets, of the matching gold bands neither of them have been able to stop sneaking glances at since last night. He's all of that and more, and Victor can't begin to fathom doubting Yuuri even the slightest.

 

He leans in, soft as he can, brushing his lips to Yuuri's. He barely pulls away before Yuuri takes chase, quick to catch Victor's lips with his. Victor doesn't pull away again, instead huffing a soft laugh and pushing back, fingers curling along the counter's edge. Whether it's one kiss, slow and tender, or a string of them, he doesn't know nor does he think it matters. Yuuri is so warm against him he thinks he could easily stay like this, if only there wasn't so much at stake.

 

It's Yuuri who pulls away this time, his own grip on the counter behind him white-knuckled and shaking despite the pink of his face, the fresh plump of his lips, the glimmer of his now-darker eyes. Victor laughs as Yuuri goes from dazed to exasperated as he collects himself, and Victor wordlessly fishes his lip balm from his pocket.

 

"What did I just finish telling you earlier?" Yuuri hisses at him with no heat. He puts up no struggle when Victor sweeps his finger over Yuuri's lips with the balm, this time with the proper, professional detachment a coach should be using. Never mind the fact a proper, professional coach would know better than to get this close to his student. "If someone came in--!"

 

"After everything that's gotten us to this point," Victor interrupts, "a kiss in a dressing room is hardly that scandalous."

 

Yuuri sighs, raking back his hair. Victor keeps his touch gentle as he pulls the hand away, threading their fingers together briefly before releasing his grip to start working in the mousse.

 

"It's just," Yuuri starts, looking conflicted. "I don't want anyone thinking less of you just because I'm..."

 

"Yuuri." Victor insists, rubbing circles into Yuuri's scalp to soothe him, "You're Yuuri, the man I'm going to marry when you win."

 

Yuuri looks at him, pained. "I'm also still your student. People keep talking, Victor, and I hate it."

 

Done with his task, Victor touches fingers to Yuuri's jaw, tilts it up so Yuuri's eyes meet his. "Let them," he says. "It won't matter when you show them just what you're capable of."

 

"Easier said than done," Yuuri grumbles. Victor smiles, but doesn't lean in; the transformation complete, Yuuri would only get annoyed at Victor mussing up his appearance and affecting his performance.

 

"You won't let me down," he reminds Yuuri, soft. "You promised me that, and I'm holding you to it."

 

* * *

 

Well.

 

Broken world record or not, with an almost guaranteed gold medal considering how _high_ Yuuri's score currently is, there are more important things to focus on now that they're being ushered out of the Kiss and Cry. Of all the things Victor's realized too late these past few days, something like a rerecording of Yuuri's free skate music was low on the priority list. After all, why should he doubt his darling, wonderful Yuuri about something as important as his free skate, which he loves and treasures so much?

 

"What a difference a remastering does," Victor chirps, and Yuuri's shoulders stiffen. As they _should_. "It's almost like your friend managed to get in contact with someone who both knows me very well _and_ has easy access to a Nikiforov violin and the appropriate high-quality soloist materials. Whoever could that be, I wonder?"

 

"I never got a straight answer out of her," Yuuri mutters, looking aside. "So I don't know how to answer that myself."

 

Victor hums, tapping his chin. He ignores the tension in his own jaw, the tremolo of his racing heart. "But you had a proper disc, not a file you burned to one. And the quality of the sound improved _so much_ , you could hear every note beautifully. You really went all-out for this last performance, didn't you?"

 

The words hit their mark and Yuuri's attempts at stoicism crumble. "She approached _me_ ," he insists, looking pained. "I got dragged away after morning practice because she wanted to meet me for lunch. No one told me anything until I was sitting there with her!"

 

It's an hour's flight from St. Petersburg to Moscow. Of _course_ she'd do something like that. She's done it before, hasn't she? Why had Victor simply assumed that she'd be complacent and stay on the sidelines for once in Victor's life, after Victor does something that might be considered riskier than his usual stunts? He doesn't regret leaving to look after Maccachin, but he hadn't known it'd be at _this_ cost!

 

Doesn't it all make perfect sense now? Yuuri, whose confidence has been growing by the day, suddenly deciding on his own to let go of his own career and Victor's role in it with far less regrets in his eyes than Victor ever expected to see from someone who has never backed down from a challenge in the time he's known him. Yuuri, who has been throwing his all in every practice since coming back from Russia on his own like every second counts even if the risks for it were high. Yuuri, who out of the blue decides to buy _engagement rings_ because he's been led to think it's the only way to keep Victor in his life _and_ keep him happy.

 

Because _someone_ must've planted the idea in Yuuri's pretty, thick skull that Victor is incapable of loving more than one thing at a time. _Someone_ must have told him that Victor's prioritized his career at the expense of his personal life for going on two decades. _Someone_ who, despite her own long, illustrious career, has been bitter and nagging for years that Victor is not her little Vityen'ka anymore, just some fantasy caricature with his name and face.

 

At least for the first time since last night, Victor finds himself furious at someone besides himself or Yuuri. He almost understands now why Yakov feels the need to down a shot of vodka before engaging in verbal combat with his grandmother.

 

(He remembers her words, spoken six years ago in the heat of a fight after he'd so easily cut his hair: "I await the day you fall in love, so you will know even a fraction of how miserable a man can be."

 

He will never admit it to her face but look at him now, so desperate to hold on to this happiness, something that's eluded him for so long.)

 

The worst part is: _they're both right_. Victor misses the ice, now that he's resettled into himself, now that he again has all this music flowing inside him that itches to be heard. That's why he wants nothing to do with his competitive career, why he is so comfortable as Yuuri's coach because letting the world hear him through Yuuri is so much more meaningful to him than skating it himself. He knows the ice's siren song all too well, what effect it can have on him when he's particularly inspired; Victor cannot, _will not_ let it be the reason he loses someone else he loves so dearly.

 

He heard her in the violin of Yuuri's song, he knows what she thinks. He heard the cold, detached, technically perfect first notes, nothing like the dreamy kindness from the original song. He heard the stuttered vibrato as the piano became bolder, the crisp brightness shattering all at once into something far sweeter. He heard the swell of warmth, almost overwhelming, before it swept itself aside to again let the piano take center stage. How much softer, sadder the violin sounded as it came in for the finale, still heartachingly adoring but with a sense of inexplicable loss in its voice.

 

It's not a correction of Victor's role in Yuuri's life, because his grandmother knows much less about that than Yuuri's friend. It's a blatant challenge, the other gauntlet from their fight six years ago finally thrown: "Prove you're not the man I think you are. Prove you've grown up and changed, now that you yourself know love."

 

"Victor?" Yuuri calls, and he blinks as Yuuri squeezes his arm, looking pensive. "Are you mad? I'm sorry, she asked me to keep it secret. Maybe I shouldn't have."

 

It's not as if the spark's ever left Yuuri's eyes, not like it had with Victor. His choice to retire is purely because he thinks it's the only way to make Victor come back, and Victor wants to stay angry with him for making this kind of decision on his own but how can he, when Victor is here doing the same thing? It's for that reason Victor can understand his logic, even if he doesn't agree with it in the slightest. Victor's had his run. Victor can be satisfied with watching Yuuri from the sidelines, watching him glow like he's always been meant to, watching him and Yuri become the next living legends in figure skating because Victor Nikiforov's reign is over--

 

And just like that, strings snap. There's the sting, the bite of the whip that happens when they grow too old and worn, or are tuned too tightly. It might break skin, it might just leave a welt, but either way it hurts and you're left feeling stunned and hoping that there are replacements at hand.

 

Because it's been Victor himself who's made Yuuri complacent, hasn't it? Yuuri, who Victor's been spending months trying to convince of his personal worth, his beauty, his strong heart, finally has it in his head that he deserves to feel the way he does, that Victor chose him and doesn't regret it and now the world knows exactly why. Yuuri, who knows how much Victor's helped him, wanting to return the favor by bringing him back and supporting him instead, without the farce of professional interest. Something that _just yesterday_ he'd expressed being upset by, fearing no one would ever take them seriously.

 

Yuuri's always been most motivated when he thinks he has something to lose or a point to prove. If he wins gold today, there's _nothing left_ for him to fight for. That's why he's so sure of his decision.

 

Otabek Altin is entering the rink now, too much of a wild card for Victor to rely on in these last critical moments. There's only one person here who still has the capability of adding that last bit of tinder to Yuuri's competitive fire, one person who cares enough to listen no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise.

 

"I just need some fresh air," he tells Yuuri, hand over Yuuri's before he gently pulls it away. "I'll only be a minute."

 

Victor can't break Yuuri's heart again; he didn't have it in him then, he certainly doesn't have it in him now. He'd sooner just have the both of them retire out of spite, because at least that way there's no more argument about who's wasting whose career.

 

But _Yuri_ \-- stubborn brat of a fifteen year old who admires Yuuri's work ethic more than Victor's genius, who probably was more upset than Victor after the banquet was the last anyone heard or saw of Yuuri that season, who throws a hissy-fit every time Victor's flirting makes _his_ role model look less "cool" -- has no such reservations and all the drive to pull off another miracle.

 

* * *

 

They're on their way to the banquet hall when the reporters finally corner them. Victor's finally got Yuuri in a half-decent suit, though there's nowhere to discard his old one, and somehow Yuuri has managed to salvage that damn tie _again_. Victor, briefly, considers letting Yuuri drink enough for him to lose it on his own, but Yuuri has made it known that he does not intend for a repeat of last year.

 

That, and knowing Victor's luck, someone might return it anyway.

 

Times like this, Victor finds himself grateful for the general politeness of Japanese newscasters. They look a little awkward, hanging towards the back as the more brash pile up front with recorders and cameras already brandished. Yuuri obviously prefers their attitude best as well, stiltedly answering questions thrown at him about his rumored retirement, his thoughts during his free skate, how he feels about being so narrowly beat from last year's astounding leap to first by a boy with his name who only debuted this year. And--

 

"Yuuri Katsuki," someone -- an actual _child_ , which is surprising enough as it is, hair tied back in corded braids and a missing tooth whistling their speech -- starts, stares hard on the two of them to the point of discomfort even for Victor. "Everyone's been wondering, but why do you and Victor have matching rings?"

 

The adult reporters gawk, but eye Yuuri for an answer anyway. Apparently, a child with enough aspirations of sportscasting to do it for fun online can get away with more invasive questions. Which, considering the Nishigori girls, seems to match up fine. Had anyone else asked, Yuuri would have completely ignored the question, kept Victor's advice and his own experience with the press in mind to keep his private life and his professional life separate.

 

But, Victor knows as Yuuri closes his eyes and sighs, clearly bracing himself for the incoming onslaught, they really don't have that luxury anymore.

 

"I realized I needed a good luck charm that I knew would never leave me. So two days ago, I proposed to Victor," he says, voice soft for the child but eyes hard on the adults, daring them to make an uproar of it. "I know it wasn't the best timing, and that it could cause some problems. I just didn't care."

 

The child reporter blinks before grinning and turning to their mother, holding the camera, who blinks in bewilderment at Yuuri and Victor. "See? In the end, though he didn't win the gold medal, the power of love still saves the day!"

 

Others start mumbling, tones ranging from skeptical to begrudging to offended. It's the same arguments all over again, old and tired and nothing new. They're professionals, they should know better. Yuuri's so young, he probably doesn't. Victor's his coach, he shouldn't abuse his authority. Victor's--

 

"Victor's the reason I've gotten this far and why I'm standing here today," Yuuri snaps, and the crowd falls quiet in shock and Victor finds himself staring too, feeling Yuuri's hand firm and warm over his. "I'm a grown man and regardless of our professional lives, we are both peers. No one forced anyone into anything."

 

Newscaster Morooka balks, as he seems prone to do when Yuuri gets like this. "Skater Katsuki," he manages, clearing his throat. "Would you care to elaborate...?"

 

"I said what I said," he says, crisp. "I'll be continuing on with Victor as my coach, as well as my fiancé and a future rival." Yuuri remembers himself and bows his head, jerky. "I ask for your continued support. Thank you."

 

"Skater Katsuki!" someone else calls out. "What do you mean about that last part?"

 

This time, Victor turns to the crowd. Smiles his old smile, lets his hand settle at Yuuri's waist now that he's finally allowed, mentally sends an apology to Yakov for having to clean up this mess later when he finally hears about it now that he's experienced what administrative hell exists for coaches with unpredictable pupils.

 

"I'll be returning to skating in the coming weeks," he chirps, bright and sweet, and the crowd of reporters gawks and immediately starts to tear into a new wave of question after question. "I need to earn my records back, don't I?"

 

* * *

 

Celestino leaves Phichit with a warning to not go crazy with the champagne just because he's old enough to drink in Spain, then locks him out of the hotel's WiFi just to prevent him from posting anything. Phichit, just slightly vindictive, cheerfully reminds him that he's been legal to drink in Thailand since April, thanks, and he's not really a lightweight despite his inexperience. Besides, hadn't he proved that when Celestino choked on Phichit's uncle's whiskey and he barely winced?

 

Celestino bows out quietly after that, muttering something that sounds a little dark under his breath. Phichit's still not quite sure where he went, since he can't find him by the wet bar, but as long as he doesn't conk out in a corner or tries to challenge one of the Russians to a drinking contest again he should be fine. No wonder Yuuri spiraled out of control last year, sheesh.

 

The champagne is good, though Phichit does wish it were sweeter. Dry champagne's harder to drink too much of, he guesses. Looks like everyone's taking precautions.

 

He hears a low chuckle behind him and Phichit glances over. Christophe stands there, half-grinning, his choreographer on his arm.

 

"Is this going to be year two of Celestino's boy getting drunk off his ass?" he asks, voice light. Phichit grins back and raises his flute.

 

"Nah, Yuuri's just kind of a sore loser and had a really bad week last year," he answers. Last place _does_ sting, he won't lie about that, but Phichit's accomplished his goals for this tournament and gave the performances he'd poured his heart into his all. He can work on upping his technical difficulty later. "Besides, this is nothing! You should try what we have in Bangkok, _that's_ some good stuff."

 

"I'll take you up on that when you finally bring a tournament there," Christophe says, smiling a little more genuinely. He pats his choreographer's hand and the man rolls his eyes, letting go and wandering off to talk business elsewhere in the room. "Heard Thailand's drinking scene's pretty affordable, so I expect great things with so much room to _experiment_."

 

Phichit snickers at Chrisophe's dip in tone. "You do know I don't get as embarrassed as easily as certain people here, right?"

 

"Yes, but I've heard enough stories about the golden child to not bother unless I want to get kicked," Christophe deadpans. Phichit laughs harder. "I'm pretty sure Victor gets more bruises from the little Yuri's temper tantrums than skating or his fiancé. The latter of which is a shame, let me tell you."

 

"His _fiancé_ ," Phichit groans. "I'm kind of mad Yuuri was _that close_ to winning, god. This would've been the perfect opportunity for a romantic wedding!"

 

Christophe shrugs. "It's probably for the best. There was no time to get anything prepared, and Victor's..." he makes a face. "As much as he'd love just running off into the sunset like that, I'm pretty sure he wants to pull all the stops with Yuuri. That'd take him a year of planning at the _least_."

 

"Good thing we're not in Vegas, then," Phichit sighs, purposely overdramatic. "Much easier to resist without officiates on every corner."

 

"You," Christophe laughs, raising his glass with a wink. "I like you."

 

"Charmed, I'm sure," Phichit returns, bowing with a flourish of his arm.

 

They chat, pleasant and easy-going, as attention is brought to other skaters coming in and being announced at the door. JJ and his fiancée, along with his parents, stride in with their barrier of pride and dignity. Phichit figures that they're still a little protective of him, after his breakdown during his short program and the way he clawed his way back to the podium. Otabek beelines for the wall after his introduction and leaves his coach to handle business, where he's quickly joined by the gold medalist Yuri. Who seems to be sulking with his glass of sparkling water, glancing towards the door every time it opens.

 

Huh. Come to think of it, Yuuri's late.

 

Christophe hums into his flute. "I wonder what could possibly be keeping them," he drolls.

 

"The crowd of reporters outside?" Phichit tries, face the picture of innocence. Their faces twitch. "Maybe Yuuri lost his tie."

 

"Maybe Victor's fussing over his hair."

 

"Loose buttons. Can't have those."

 

"Some room troubles? It happens to the best of us."

 

"Maybe--" and Phichit can't help it, he cracks first. Christophe's grin is smug as Phichit covers his mouth to smother the guffaws. "Oh no. I shouldn't be making fun of him when he's so happy finally, but _Victor Nikiforov_. Do you know how long I've suffered his fanboying?"

 

"I have an idea," Christophe says. "I did know him when we were in Juniors." His face twists. "And _oh_ , if you think Yuuri was bad. Victor knows him for less than a night and then spends the next four months _sulking_ because Yuuri kept failing to qualify. I am not surprised he hopped on the first flight to Japan after that video went viral."

 

"You don't sound too happy," Phichit notes.

 

Christophe shrugs. "People rarely are when their best friend goes after the person they've got a small thing for."

 

Phichit stares. "Wait, what?"

 

"Small thing," Christophe repeats, demonstrating it by pinching his fingers close together with just enough space to squeeze a fingertip into. "Mostly was over it by last year's party anyway, but it still stung a little to see them so _cuddly_ at the Cup of China."

 

"Is that why your short program was so..." Phichit debates how to finish that and decides to just leave it as is. Christophe gets it and laughs.

 

"Yeah, I guess I kind of overdid it," he admits. "Felt like I lost already, you know? Didn't really see anyone but Victor as good enough to compete with, and then kept thinking that maybe if I was able to beat Victor Yuuri would actually look my way for once."

 

Phichit pats his shoulder, sympathetic. "You're good now, though?"

 

Christophe glances over to where his choreographer is trying not to mentally strangle some old guy in a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. "Yeah. This season's cleared my head a little, embarrassing as it is to end up fifth after so long at second."

 

A commotion happens by the doors, and finally in walks Yuuri and Victor. Phichit nearly chokes when he sees them with a flushed face and a pleased look respectively. The announcer coughs before stating their names and positions, looking a little bewildered over the last addition: "--and... f-fiancé?"

 

"So you didn't just elope on us!" Phichit can't resist teasing. Yuuri's blush immediately goes bright red. "What took you so long?"

 

"Reporters!" Victor chimes back, tone light. This time, Christophe has to cover his mouth to muffle snickers. "Sorry to disappoint, but I said when he wore _gold_ we'd marry and alas, he only has silver to his name."

 

"Thank god!" the actual gold-wearing Yuri finally exclaims from his corner. "You two are annoying as it is!"

 

Yuuri finally recovers and shoots back, his right hand raised to his mouth and the gold ring glinting in the banquet hall's lights, "I'll get you next year, Yurio!"

 

The boy jerks and wordlessly sits back down, looking somewhere between stunned and almost... relieved? Next to him, Otabek pats his shoulder.

 

Victor laughs and takes Yuuri's hand, pressing his lips to Yuuri's ring. Yuuri grins, the cheeky one Phichit knows all too well from their Detroit days.

 

"Oh, look, Victor," he says, looking innocently up at his fiancé. "You kissed my gold after all."

 

Christophe, poor unsuspecting soul he is who somehow _still_ thinks Yuuri doesn't have a mean-spirited bone in his body, chokes on his champagne as he snorts laughing. Phichit hands him a napkin, snickering.

 

Victor only blinks, staring at the hand still in his, before laughing and bending down to press a kiss into Yuuri's hair. "So I did, darling."

 

"Oh, fuck no!" the Russian Yuri screeches, jolting back up again. Otabek forces him to sit him back down. "I didn't beat his ass just so you two could be gross all the time!"

 

Victor waves at him cheerily. Yuuri does, too, though more subdued. Phichit's not entirely sure what the kid does, but a server scuttles off, spooked and missing a tray of canapés.

 

They're swept away soon enough, people eager to talk to the man who broke Victor Nikiforov's longstanding free skate record and the closest silver medalist to gold in recent history. Yuuri, who generally does pretty bad in crowds and small-talk with people who clearly think they're better than he is like to get into, is oddly centered until Phichit notices Victor's hand at the small of his back, and gets close enough once or twice to hear him gently steer the conversation towards subjects Yuuri can actually put his two cents in.

 

"I'm glad things worked out for them," Christophe says, a little more seriously than his previous teasing. "I always thought Victor was just bored, not... burnt out. Never thought I'd see him so happy for someone else."

 

Phichit smiles. "I could say the same for Yuuri," he says in kind. "He's so hard on himself and it kind of makes him seem cold if you don't know him, but he's really one of the nicest people I know. It's good to see someone bring that out in him."

 

"Even if it's Victor," Christophe adds, the glint of amusement back.

 

" _Especially_ since it's Victor," Phichit shoots back, just as mischievous. "Have you seen how worked up he gets? I have full rights to tease him forever now!"

 

"Collaborating best man stories when they finally tie the knot," Christophe says, inspired, and Phichit grins. "I completely ruin Victor's image of being so cool and charming, you bring up Yuuri's fanboy years."

 

"He'll never forgive me," Phichit whines, but his eyes light up in glee. "I have _too many stories_."

 

Christophe laughs. "We're either the best kind of best friends, or the worst."

 

Phichit hums, pleased. "Obviously the best."

 

They raise their flutes to clink together in a small toast.

 

"To better luck next year!" Phichit says.

 

Christophe says in kind, "To better luck all around."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize, but this is actually the same amount of scenes as the previous chapter and there was no good place to stop and then the finale made my edited plans useless so I had to get Chris and Phichit back in _somehow_. Victor's floweriness makes him _so long-winded_ and I had so little time, my god.
> 
> Happy (slightly belated) birthday, you sweet, smitten-to-hell-and-back man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count has been bumped up because I realized that 1) Yuuri's not going to have the same amount of development otherwise and that's bad, and 2) seven chapters here plus the two previous stories make nine, and [those are good numbers](http://ruslanguage.ru/2016/02/the-language-of-flowers-in-russia/) for what I'm trying to go for here. :v
> 
> I'm just going to preface this with a warning that there are a few parts in this chapter that are a bit uncomfortable even for me and I'm not _positive_ I should tag for it. To cover at least some bases (and since it won't extend past this chapter) if this is something that could potentially be harmful to you the **End Notes** contain the proper warning for those who would rather not have part of the chapter spoiled. 

"Are you sure you have everything, Yuuri?"

 

"It's a long trip, Yuuri-kun. You should have a book or something to keep you busy."

 

"Yuuri! Here's our notebooks!"

 

"Yeah, take our notebooks! Victor used them before!"

 

"His notes will be useful, don't you think?"

 

"Girls, don't you dare try to pawn off your recyclables on someone else!"

 

"It's fine, Yuu-chan," Yuuri finally manages to get in, holding his hands out as Axel, Lutz, and Loop eagerly drop the aforementioned notebooks in them. "If Victor's been taking notes in them, it's probably going to be more useful than a typical guidebook."

 

Yuuko sighs, still shooting her daughters a stern look. They blink back at her innocently. Yuuri debates letting Yuuko know they've been poking through the boxes Victor's insisted can stay in Hasetsu, since they don't contain anything super important, but decides against it. They'll rat themselves out if it's anything remotely interesting, and the most interesting thing in those is the fact Victor did, in fact, have his own spare linens for the king-sized bed he'd used here. Which, really? Mari could have told them that.

 

Nishigori shakes his head, laughing a little in disbelief. "I have to say, Yuuri, I don't think anyone was expecting this out of you. You sure you're ready for another big move like this?"

 

"Should've asked him that _before_ Victor Nikiforov got his hooks in him," Minako grouses. Yuuri's still not sure what happened, just that Minako's sour mood lately is pretty relative to Mari flaunting some extra cash from what seems like nowhere. Did she win a lottery or something? "We just get our Yuuri back, and less than a year later he's being whisked off to St. Petersburg for who knows how long!"

 

Yuuri looks at her, not too offended but still slightly bewildered. "I thought you wanted me to succeed...?"

 

"Of course I do," Minako says, and for some reason her eyes start to water. "But the next time we see you, you're going to be married and we won't be there! That's what pisses me off!"

 

And there goes Yuuri's tea. "That won't be for a while!" he manages between coughs. Mari hands him a napkin as she passes, one of the smaller boxes balanced on her hip to take to the truck outside. "And what makes you think none of you would be invited even if it happens sooner than expected?!"

 

"The fact you nearly eloped in Barcelona not even two days after proposing?" Mari offers. Yuuri whips around to look at her, betrayed. "Don't give me that look, fanboy. You brought this on yourself. I'm still not sure how _that_ worked."

 

"We aren't discussing _that_ ," he hisses at her. Especially around the girls. And where his and Mari's parents are still in earshot. He's also not willing to know what Nishigori or Yuuko's reactions would be, either. Honestly, the quicker people return to Not Talking About It, the better, but there's only so much Yuuri can do about the gossip circles within the professional community.

 

At least everyone's more interested in Victor's comeback than hassling them. For once.

 

This year's Nationals was far from the first one Yuuri's spent mostly glued to his phone, but it's the first where he wasn't watching livestreams or videos when he should be resting. Instead he spent it on FaceTime and playing telephone tag with calls and texts, his usual worry focused on Victor and his two-week rush to drop right into the middle of the season like he's been competing since the beginning. It's not like previous years, obviously. Two weeks isn't nearly enough time for even Victor to have music, choreography, _and_ new costumes ready. Yuuri hopes Victor isn't giving Yakov too hard a time over his choices from his repertoire. He's heard plenty of yelling on Victor's end as it is.

 

Nishigori slaps Yuuri's shoulder and continues helping Mari pack the truck. Yuuko and Minako stay sitting with him, helping him through the last box of things from Yuuri's desk, separating what can stay from what can go from what's going on the plane with Yuuri in his carry-on. Axel, Lutz, and Loop start dozing off as the clock ticks closer to their naptime, despite their protests that they want to be awake to see Yuuri off. The lingering, long-time clients wave at him and wish him luck as they slowly filter in and out with the afternoon.

 

It really is just like when Yuuri first moved to Detroit, even if the dog laying at his side is so much bigger and keeps nosing the treat bag Yuuri's stuffed in his carry-on already. The only major difference, aside from who's waiting for him and where, is the fact he'll be taking this dog with him.

 

(He does still wonder sometimes, if things would've been different had he been selfish enough to ask Celestino if he could bring Vicchan along. It's for the best he hadn't, though. At least here, he was loved to the very end.)

 

"Yuuri," his mother calls, and he looks up to see her holding a notebook of her own. "This is from your father and Mari and me. We tried to think of something better than what we gave you two at your engagement party, but..."

 

She hands it out, and Yuuri wordlessly takes it and opens the cover, something stinging at his eyes and tugging at his throat.

 

Everything is written in both his mother's neat penmanship in kana and Mari's looser English counterpart, notes added along the side with question marks next to ingredients that are harder to find outside of Japan and stars next to the names of favorites. Some of the English is misspelt, some grammar off, but it's still perfectly understandable. Cutout pictures from the inn's menu are pasted to each page, a few doodles in colored pens alongside certain instructions that are a little more in-depth than Yuuri would expect.

 

"Mari did the English parts, just so you know," his mother says, laughing lightly as she touches her cheek in embarrassment. "What we didn't know, we just asked Minako-senpai. It was your father's idea to put the pictures in, just so you'd both know what you're supposed to be looking at!"

 

Yuuri is speechless, flipping through the pages, and the last contains an image he knows _has_ to be in here but still, seeing it makes his heart leap at the sweep of kana and kanji with _(pork cutlet bowl)_ scribbled below, the gold medal stickers around the glossy menu photograph of his mother's katsudon.

 

His mother's face is soft with warmth and affection and something a little like heartbreak when he looks up at her, wide-eyed. Yuuri's own heart aches at the sight. "I should have done this when you left last time, you know. Given you a little something to remind you that home was never so far away."

 

"Mom," Yuuri tries, but she shakes her head.

 

"You'll be fine, Yuuri. You've always been a strong boy; I'm glad you've finally met someone you're willing to lean on for support." She taps the picture of the katsudon. "When you get to Russia, you two should make this together to celebrate."

 

"I'm not that great a cook," Yuuri manages around the knot in his throat. "I'm pretty sure Victor's not much better, either."

 

His mother laughs. "You'll learn together. That's how marriages work, after all."

 

Minako huffs a laugh herself, leaning forward with her chin in her palm. "Good luck finding half the good stuff, kid. Though I guess your loaded fiancé will just order most of the pantry staples online for you."

 

"Like I've been saying," his dad cackles, "that Victor's a good choice overall!"

 

Yuuri groans. "Dad, please stop making it sound like you're okay with Victor because he's well-off."

 

His dad shrugs. "Love alone doesn't put food on the table or a roof over your head."

 

"And this is why I'm not getting married," Mari calls from the entrance, sounding entirely too vindicated. "They're all yours, little brother! You get all the fun talks!"

 

"Oh, nonsense, Mari," his mother tuts. "The grandchildren talk won't be until at _least_ one of them retires!"

 

Minako howls, not even bothering to slap a hand over her mouth for propriety. Yuuri fervently wishes he were already on the plane.

 

Mari shrugs. "Still a talk I'm not getting. I'm fine being the cool aunt."

 

"Would that make us cousins?" Lutz asks, peering up over the edge of the table again. "Since Mama and Papa grew up with him like a brother too?"

 

"In that case, they'd definitely be cousins!" Axel insists.

 

Loop's eyes shine. "Hey, you think that means we can post more about him and Victor? Since they're family?"

 

" _Girls_ ," Yuuko warns, flushing. "That's up to Yuuri and Victor to decide!"

 

"Can everyone _please_ stop talking about my hypothetical future children," Yuuri whines, shielding his face with the recipe book. He can't wait to be in Russia. Not just because he misses Victor, but because he's sure he won't have to put up with _this_ kind of teasing. Yuri still makes faces when he's around him and Victor together, and from what Yuuri recalls of the others he's met coached by Yakov, at worst their teasing will be more focused on the more _present_ parts of the relationship, not... that.

 

"Yeah, leave Yuuri alone," Minako finally wheezes as she recovers, wiping at her eyes. "He and Victor already have a kid, if you count the dog!"

 

Yeah, Yuuri needs to leave soon. He refuses to keep putting up with this.

 

He puts away his mother's recipe book into his carry-on, along with the girls' old school notebooks with Victor's scribbled Cyrillic alongside the kana and Roman alphabet. Yuuko, because she's still one of the sweetest people Yuuri's ever known, quickly helps him finish sorting this last box. Nishigori tapes the two boxes shut, and Mari takes the one that will stay back upstairs while Nishigori takes the one that's going out to the truck.

 

Yuuri has three hours until his flight leaves, to arrive in St. Petersburg at around two in the afternoon tomorrow. He's packed. Everything is in its place, and anything missed can be mailed off to them later. It's time for Yuuri to say goodbye one more time.

 

His parents are first. They laugh at his bow, nudge him back up so his mother can cradle his face in her hands and his dad can ruffle his hair like he used to more often when Yuuri was a kid. Mari sighs and smiles at him, tells him to let her know if Victor's being out of line so she can yell at him to shape up. Axel, Lutz, and Loop crowd his legs with teary-eyed hugs, and manage to extract a promise out of him to actually use his accounts more often. Yuuko smiles at him and part of Yuuri wants to hug her, too, but Nishigori takes care of that by scooping both of them up and pretty much lifting them off the ground, making Yuuko squeal and smack at his shoulders and Yuuri huff a relieved laugh while the girls clamor at his legs. Minako has no such qualms herself, and grabs Yuuri's hands once he's free of the Nishigori family pile; she manages to maintain eye contact for all of three seconds before she crumples and starts crying while still grinning, telling him that he'd better not let his nerves get the better of him again just because he has to compete with Victor as well now.

 

Nishigori will be the one driving out with him to Fukuoka Airport. This is going to be the last time for at least another year, if not more, that Yuuri will be here in Hasetsu again.

 

Yuuri looks down at Maccachin, tail wagging as he sits on the step with Yuuri's luggage. Face softening, he reaches down to scratch behind Maccachin's ear.

 

"Come on, boy," he says, leading them to the truck and a stiffly grinning Nishigori. "Victor's waiting for us."

 

* * *

 

This would almost feel like a reversal, Maccachin at heel and mostly ignoring the other passengers leaving the terminal in favor of staring at Victor waiting on the other side of the barrier and whining, if Yuuri weren't the one coming from Customs with his luggage in tow. In a way, it still is. Just because he'd been unaware of Victor's arrival in Japan last April doesn't make this feel any less like it's come full circle.

 

Just like the last time their responsibilities forced them to part, about as soon as he's allowed through Yuuri finds himself falling into Victor's open arms, Maccachin dancing around them and restless after being cooped up for too long. There's less sense of desperation this time, but the overwhelming rush of relief still knocks the air out of his lungs. Victor is mostly composed, presentable to his public with only a pair of sunglasses to obscure his face. His own bags are at his feet, ignored in favor of reunion.

 

"Welcome home," Victor sighs into his ear, nuzzling his nose into Yuuri's hair. "For the meantime, at least."

 

"Sorry I couldn't come faster," Yuuri says, just as soft. "Since Minami-kun was there, he was... very enthusiastic about making sure I didn't feel too lonely with you gone."

 

Victor laughs. "Such a dedicated fan you have, Yuuri. I'm sure he enjoyed his time with you."

 

"I still can't help but feel like he thinks I'm a lot cooler than I actually am," Yuuri mutters. Though at least this time Yuuri hadn't given him a reason to think less of him. The craving for some kind of affection following Rostelecom was... well, Yuuri's kind of embarrassed that one of the pair skaters recorded and posted that with no remorse, but somehow not as much as Yuri, who angrily demanded to have the video taken down almost as soon as it went up. Something about not giving his fans any more ideas?

 

Even so, restraining himself to a hair ruffle and a pat on the shoulder still had reduced Minami to blubbering tears and a bright red face, though Yuuri has no idea why. Surely he hadn't hit as hard this time?

 

Victor pulls free first, obviously reluctant to part as he takes Yuuri's hand as soon as he shoulders his own bags. "Come on," he says, tugging him towards the exit. "It's a little late, but we can make good time if we go now."

 

"Eh?" This is. News? "Where are we going exactly?"

 

Maccachin trots alongside them but almost immediately locks in place as soon as they're out the doors, making a face that honestly looks more offended than he had after everyone kept moving food out of reach for the week following his scare with the steamed buns. Victor sighs and lets go of Yuuri's hand to hook a finger under Maccachin's collar, gently tugging him along with no small amount of grumbling on both their parts.

 

"Yakov's given both of us the day off to rest, especially because you still need to adjust to the time change," Victor explains. "I assume he believes all my plans involve settling you in and pampering you, and as much as I'd love to do just that there is unfortunately something more important to get out of the way."

 

Yuuri blinks as Victor leads them towards the car kiosk. "Get out of the way?"

 

"It won't take long to get there," Victor assures him. "Half an hour, forty minutes with traffic."

 

Okay, that isn't bad.

 

Victor continues, tone going placid, "Of course, that doesn't account for how long we'll be there. Who knows on that front, but it certainly won't be for the night."

 

Never mind, this is definitely going to be bad.

 

"Where are we going?" he asks, mostly to verify his suspicions. It seems strange, going straight somewhere without reprieve, but there's a thread of tension tightening Victor's eyes that implies something that Yuuri feels like he should get by this point.

 

Victor enjoys surprises, but only to an extent. This is clearly him trying to get an advantage somehow, closer to the Victor Yuuri saw more when they were still getting used to each other, the Victor who carelessly tore at Yuuri's bad habits and how far he'd let himself go with little (if any) sympathy. This is the Victor who won a solid gold streak in his country's nationals and three different multinational competitions for five consecutive years without peer, who took one look at Yuuri skating his program and knew Yuuri could be a real force to be reckoned with given the right support, who set multiple world records and kept resetting them until the only two people who'd finally broken them were the two people Victor had trained himself, one way or another.

 

Too many are fooled by Victor's label as a genius and think he doesn't work long, laborious hours, that skating comes as easily to him as breathing. And yes, it kind of does, but not in the way people think. Victor's natural talent makes him a genius; Victor's _passion_ for that talent is what makes him like a god to many, including Yuuri himself.

 

Just because there's a gold ring on his finger (because Victor had -- _somehow_ , hell if Yuuri knows why -- fallen for him at his worst _twice_ ) doesn't change the fact that Victor is the reason Yuuri stands where he is today. If he never saw Victor as someone to aspire to, he would have given up figure skating by high school and continued with easier hobbies, just like Yuuko did. He would have just kept watching Victor from afar and been completely okay with that instead of letting that small, selfish want to meet him face-to-face become his driving force in life.

 

It's certainly gotten him farther than Yuuri ever dared to dream, but it's come with its own challenges. Namely, discovering that Victor, for all he dotes on Yuuri without batting an eye, has no qualms with taking advantage of his fame and is one of the most demanding people he's ever met.

 

The man at the counter nearly trips over his feet getting Victor the exact car he wants to rent ("We need one for where we're going, and I'm not making a car-hire sit with us." "Does it have to be luxury, though...?") and another worker loads their bags with wide, starry eyes. Maccachin hops into the back eagerly to get off the ice-cold pavement and no one kicks up a fuss. Victor peeks into Yuuri's luggage and asks after the higashi he'd asked Yuuri to bring before he left, and slips it into a glitzy gift bag he's already snagged from the counter inside, fancy tissue paper to wrap it and all, and a second, smaller bag Yuuri has no clue to the contents of joins them. Victor then opens the passenger-side for him, face fond as he ushers him in.

 

"Rest, Yuuri," Victor croons before he shuts the door, brushing Yuuri's fringe aside with gentle fingers and leaning in to press a gentle kiss onto Yuuri's cheek. "I'll wake you up when we get there."

 

So, a little reluctantly, Yuuri does. It helps to have Maccachin, sleeping off the remainders of his calming treats in his system for the flight, his head and forepaws strewn over the center console for easier petting reach. The road is bumpy and uneven, but nothing Yuuri hasn't experienced to some degree during his years in Detroit. He can doze through pothole-ridden roads. He's done it before easily enough, when he still worked with Celestino and red-eyes were the easiest flights to get.

 

It really doesn't feel like long when they slow to a stop, and Yuuri blinks the drowsiness from his eyes. Looking around, he mostly sees what looks like an old train station, abandoned in favor of paved roads but still with enough of a clear lot in front of it to park in. A few children peer out from around the corner of the building, snug with thick winter hats and mittens and snow clinging to their coats.

 

Victor smiles at them as he steps out of the car, kind and assuring, and blithely opens the back so Maccachin can hop out. The kids gasp at the sight of the old poodle, but Maccachin only squints at the snow on the layer of snow, ice, and gravel below suspiciously.

 

Yuuri turns in his seat, a smile playing on his face as he unbuckles. "A dog whose lived in Russia up until last year and he hates getting his feet cold?"

 

"Believe me, I haven't been looking forward to this old song-and-dance either," Victor huffs with a laugh in his tone. "He'll be worse now, after Hasetsu's spoiled him."

 

"Because _Hasetsu_ spoiled him," Yuuri parrots, laughing a little himself in fond disbelief. "Yes. Of course."

 

As he gets out the children scatter off down the road, giggling as they race off to talk about the newcomers in this quiet little branch off of St. Petersburg's busier main streets. Victor locks the car after they're both out with the gift bags, Maccachin dashing ahead as he finally embraces his poor feet's fate. The road's kind of empty, and Yuuri has no idea why they're apparently walking the rest of the way to their destination.

 

Which. Victor still hasn't told him.

 

"You never answered me," he says. Victor hums, thoughtful.

 

"Didn't I?" Yuuri gives him a look. "Guess not!"

 

"Well, if you're that determined to keep it from me," Yuuri starts, straightening his back and widening his stride. Victor makes a sound of mock-pain and grabs Yuuri's wrist, pulling him back with an exaggerated pout.

 

"I just don't want to scare you," Victor assures him, probably a little more seriously than the situation calls for. "I'd rather not have the whole rink paranoid my grandmother's going to storm in. Yakov's stressed enough with Lilia, he doesn't need another old woman ordering him around!"

 

Yuuri stares. "So why would he think you're taking care of me instead, in that case?"

 

He really should expect Victor to smile and raise Yuuri's knuckles to his lips by now. Victor never misses an opportunity. "Because you're here and I'd much rather spend my time with you?" He pauses, tilts his head in thought. "Although I suspect he thinks I'm using you as an excuse to avoid her. He patted my shoulder and wished me luck before he left."

 

Honestly, that sounds like it could go a number of ways, even with context.

 

"It'll be interesting to see her again," Yuuri says, sighing. "She, uh. Caught me really off-guard last time."

 

Victor smiles and Yuuri's stomach drops. He knows this smile. This is the cavity-sweet, indulgent to the point of condensation smile Victor favors when he has no intentions of being nice even if he has to play the part. Yuuri knows he hadn't seemed too happy about learning that his grandmother had hopped a surprise visit while he'd been gone, but to this extent?

 

"We'll call it even, then," Victor chirps, and lets go of Yuuri's hand to unlock his phone. Yuuri barely gets a squawk of protest before Victor already has it to his ear, still smiling that _kind of terrifying_ smile.

 

Yuuri doesn't get any of the conversation once she picks up because Victor immediately launches into a hyper-sounding string of Russian. He stares blankly as he watches Victor dominate the conversation with less finesse than he would in interviews but far more enthusiasm and flair, barely letting the old woman get a word in edgewise. He ends it with something that sounds like it _could_ be "see you soon", but Yuuri can't be entirely sure.

 

Victor hangs up with a blithe smile on his face, turning his phone off and tucking it back into his pocket without a hint of remorse.

 

"That should give her enough time," Victor hums, ignoring Yuuri's gawking and leaning over to give a peck to his cold-bitten nose before slipping his fingers back around Yuuri's. "Let's go, Yuuri. It's a five-minute walk to her home from here if we're slow, and my grandmother will be waiting."

 

(Mental note: if Victor starts sounding hyper and ridiculous on the phone, to the point of talking over him, then Yuuri's probably managed to piss him off enough to incite petty revenge. Got it.)

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, when they arrive at the gate leading up to the old shop Nadezhda storms out of the front door, red shawl tight around her shoulders and a righteous fire in her eyes.

 

" _Vityen'ka_ ," she spits, and Yuuri balks as Victor steps in front of him in a halfhearted attempt to shield him from the old woman's wrath.

 

From there the two devolve into what sounds like bickering with no heat or malice, though Yuuri is familiar enough with Victor's body language by now to notice the tension from earlier simmering low as he stands in front of Yuuri. He chances a glance around Victor's shoulders to have a better look at his face, but all he can see is the same sort of half-smile he wears when he teases Yuri paired with the sharp glint of his eyes when he's particularly on edge. It's a strange look, considering who Nadezhda is to Victor. He doesn't know the old woman all that well, but from their interactions before and her similarities to Victor, he can guess she's in a similar, if more huffy state.

 

In fact, the only time Victor's face softens during the exchange is when Yuuri catches him rubbing his thumb over his ring through his glove and the warmth that seeps back into his tone as he says, distinctly in English, "That won't be an issue as much from now on."

 

"As much, he says!" Nadezhda makes the switch about as seamlessly, throwing her hands in the air and looking to the sky in disbelief. "So I suppose I should expect calls three times a year instead of one or two, if you're particularly bored?"

 

"Maybe," Victor chirps. She snaps fire-blue eyes back to him, scowling.

 

In the span of a blink she has Victor's ear twisted between her fingers, and Yuuri stares helplessly as Victor bites back a yelp, his grandmother again tearing into him in rapid-fire Russian. This... is definitely the same woman who had no qualms casually insulting her grandson over lunch. He's not sure why he expected otherwise.

 

Yuuri steps away from Victor while she's scolding him, holding the gift bags close as Maccachin trots over to sniff at Nadezhda's skirt. The movement catches her eye, and Yuuri freezes as she gives him a once-over and hisses one last reprimand into Victor's ear before letting go and turning to Yuuri with a far brighter smile.

 

"Yuuri!" She greets, opening her arms and gathering him in a hug and what sounds like a kiss over his cheek. Over her shoulder, Yuuri shoots Victor a bewildered look. Victor, rubbing feeling back into his ear, shrugs and watches on with a dry, amused smile. "You did wonderfully, my dear. It wasn't gold, but that's only because little Yura pulled ahead by the skin of his teeth!"

 

"Thank you, Nadya," he starts, barely remembering her allowance in time. Victor blinks, face falling in shock. It's kind of funny, actually, like Victor genuinely didn't expect her to be so friendly with little preamble. To be fair, Yuuri hadn't expected it, either.

 

"Good for you, remembering that!" she hums, pulling back with a pleased glint to her eyes. Yuuri would be more concerned, if it weren't for the evident fondness in them, too. "Looks like you'll be improving your Russian after all, hm?"

 

Yuuri pinks. "I suppose." She huffs a laugh and pats Yuuri's cheek fondly before turning back to Victor with sharpened eyes.

 

"As for you," she starts again, and Victor's face stiffens into what Yuuri recognizes as the Interview Smile as she starts lecturing him again. "I thought you resigned! And yet the other day, who do I see on TV, by himself and back with Yasha?"

 

"I announced after the Grand Prix finals that I'd be returning to competitions, Babulya," Victor says. "And here I thought you at least followed the print and media news. I'm hurt!"

 

Nadezhda scowls. "And what about Yuuri?"

 

"I'm still competing, as well," Yuuri says. "That's why I wasn't with Victor. Japan and Russia's Nationals overlap, so..."

 

"Is that so," she says, eyeing him. Yuuri expects her to say something else, to add onto that. She doesn't.

 

Victor finally holds up the gift bag he'd brought, the one Yuuri still doesn't have a clue about. "For the lady of the house," he chirps. "Will you let us in? Yuuri's still not used to Russian winters, you know."

 

She looks into the bag and frowns. "You think you're so funny, don't you?" she huffs, pulling out a small potted plant with a spray of purple flowers. Victor grins. "Thank you anyway. I'll be sure to put it where I can see it, unlike your face."

 

Yuuri takes this as his cue to hand over his, as well. "Here. From Japan."

 

Nadezhda lights up and takes the bag and peeks inside, making a delighted sound when she pulls out the box of higashi. "Oh, I remember these! A minister gave me these once. They'll do well with tea later." She pats his cheek again. "Thank you, dear. _Hopefully_ you'll continue to be a good influence on my Vityen'ka as well!"

 

"Now I'm really hurt," Victor interrupts, pouting. It's hard to tell if he's being serious or not. "I go out of my way to surprise you and all I do is get scolded."

 

"Stop getting yourself in trouble then, you menace," she huffs back. She turns back for the door, stopping only to tug at Victor's ears again, less aggressively this time, and tucks an envelope into his coat pocket. "You two must be freezing out here. Come in, come in!"

 

Yuuri finally steps back next to Victor, who again is rubbing his earlobes as he watches his grandmother shuffle back into the old shop.

 

"Even with her arthritis, she forgets her own strength sometimes," Victor grumbles, and when his hand drops Yuuri can see how red Victor's ears are. He glances over, face softening. "Ready to go in?"

 

Yuuri blinks. "Aren't you curious about what she gave you?"

 

Victor pulls the envelope out of his pocket, sighing. "If she gave it to me like that, she doesn't want me to open it now. Still treating me like a little child, honestly..." He trails off as he catches a glimpse of the writing on the front. Something odd flickers across his face, but it's gone before Yuuri can decipher it and he shoves it back into his pocket. The smile he gives Yuuri seems a little brittler than before. "Come on, Yuuri. Even we're not immune to the cold, and I have a lot I want to show you."

 

"And clean that dog's feet!" Nadezhda shouts from inside, startling them. "I don't want it tracking anything in my house!"

 

* * *

 

 

The interior of the shop shines bright, the afternoon sun catching on the displays. There are no violins on display, though Yuuri understands why that would be the case. No one in the Nikiforov family knows how to make violins anymore; all either of the two surviving members can do is retune and restring, and certainly nothing more complicated than basic repairs to the body. There would be no point. Still, the shop front has a basket with envelopes of strings and blocks of rosin in faded boxes in the glass display case, and there are songbooks on the shelves and a corner that looks cozy even with a velvet stool and a set-up music stand made of dark wood and wrought iron twisted into something like a fleur-de-lis. A perfect, quiet place for someone whose whole life is dedicated to and revolves around music, well into her golden years.

 

Knowing Victor grew up here too, amidst all this influence, makes it all the more evident why Victor's always been a few steps ahead of his competition.

 

Victor is quick to pull Yuuri into a side room from the main area, through a door tucked behind a shelf while his grandmother turns around and locks the front door of the shop once more. The narrow hall opens up to the old workshop, the carving tools and frames set out for everyone to see. There are glass casings over some half-finished pieces, a brush coated in varnish, long loose hairs strung together to tie at both ends.

 

"This shop is set to become a proper museum once she passes," Victor explains. He stops in front of a display that shows some old sheafs of paper, partially smeared with ash and ink blurred. "This way, no one truly forgets, even when she's gone."

 

Yuuri huffs. "That won't be for some time thanks to someone," he says.

 

"You flatter me, darling," Victor hums. "Either way, this is a relic of times past. An important one, but one nonetheless."

 

Victor's other hand lingers as they pass through the shop front again. From further into the back, Yuuri thinks he hears Nadezhda fussing in the kitchen. Victor only stops in long enough to ask what she's doing before she whips around and brandishes a wooden spoon at Victor, making him laugh and drag Yuuri off deeper into the house.

 

There are pictures on walls and tables, as they go through the rooms and Victor launches from one story to the next. He recognizes a child who could only be Victor, face cherubic and eyes alight, hair somewhere around Yuri's length last year, in dirt-stained clothes and bare feet for the photographs that take place in the warmer months and wrapped in scarves and mittens not unlike the children earlier in the winter ones. There are some in black-and-white, Nadezhda's hair a deeper gunmetal gray from the silvery white she has now, svelte and fiery-eyed in eveningwear and a violin tucked under her arm at rest, a few from featured articles from decades ago and a few in color as she grew older but no less elegant. One shot in particular stands out, from the twilight of her career, of her standing behind a seated, huffy-looking young Victor and using her long fingers to comb his hair back, a man built like a stone pillar kneeling next to the bench with a large hand over both of Victor's small ones, face stoic but eyes sparkling with the same kind of mirth Yuuri's seen so many times in Victor's.

 

He's in several photographs, actually, though not as many as Yuuri would expect. Some are when he's clearly younger, no Victor in sight but instead with a willowy woman with fine pale hair and Victor's delicate profile and honey-sweet smile. In those pictures the man looks happiest, so much like the Victor Yuuri knows he kind of understands why some people get embarrassed by how Victor can get with him. There isn't much of her, though. Yuuri already knows why, and doesn't ask even as Victor notices him staring a little too intently at the neighboring article on Nadezhda's last concert when he averts his eyes.

 

The room Victor eventually leads him to is upstairs and fair-sized, somewhere between the size of his room and Victor's back in Hasetsu. Windows high up the walls provide light even with the switch off, and a glass-encased candleholder sitting on the dresser to provide the rest in the event of a loss of power. A double bed is wedged into one corner of the room, the other side harboring a desk and an old chest. On the wall hangs a pair of skates for a young child, worn to tatters and the blades mottled with rust stains from extensive use and age.

 

Yuuri blinks, realization hitting him as he turns to Victor. His fiancé's eyes are distant as he takes in the room, but his face is soft and he brightens when he catches Yuuri looking at him.

 

"Yes," Victor says, answering the question Yuuri knows is written in his face. "This was my room as a boy. I'll admit it's not as cozy as yours, but it was enough."

 

"Wow," Yuuri manages. This whole tour's been eye-opening, even if Victor ignores the photographs in favor of old stories. It's nice, seeing how Victor's life was before his career took flight. He can kind of see why Victor was so charmed by Yuuri's everyday life in Hasetsu, though his family's hot springs aren't nearly as glamorous. "I guess you didn't spend that much time in here?"

 

Victor laughs. "No. I mostly was out and about finding mischief, as my grandmother would put it." The old bedsprings creak as Victor sits down on the mattress, and he tugs Yuuri down to join him. "She's bound to tell you a number of those stories herself over dinner. She never misses an opportunity to keep me humble."

 

"I've noticed," Yuuri says. "Too bad for her you're almost shameless."

 

Victor pouts at him and Yuuri immediately moves to shield his sides. It's not enough protection, because while his sides are thinly guarded it leaves other places wide open and Yuuri barely muffles a squawk of protest when Victor drapes his arms (and whole bodyweight) over his shoulders and blows a raspberry into Yuuri's neck. They collapse in a heap onto the mattress, Victor grinning down at him and Yuuri trying and failing to keep scowling back.

 

It doesn't take long for Victor to take further advantage of their new position to properly kiss a line up Yuuri's throat, and any protests Yuuri might've made fall to the wayside. Victor's hands curl against his scalp, fingers carding through his hair. Yuuri feels his own breath stutter when Victor lingers at his pulse point, the cool tip of his nose gentle against the curve of his jaw and breath hot against his skin. He murmurs words too soft and husky for Yuuri to understand, but the meaning's clear enough when Victor leans up to kiss him properly.

 

"Let me show you something," Victor says when he pulls away. Yuuri blinks at him, dazed, and Victor pecks the tip of his nose with a low laugh.

 

Yuuri pushes himself up so he's sitting again, in spite of Victor still more or less draped over him. Victor angles them so they're facing the window before shaking his sleeve and allowing something round and palm-sized wrapped in a soft cloth to slip into his hand. He undoes the loose button tie with a flick of his thumb, and the cloth falls away to reveal a scuffed, dark amber disc, worn down almost as much as the child-sized skates on the wall. Yuuri, with sudden clarity, recalls his lunch with Nadezhda in Moscow.

 

"Is that rosin?" Yuuri asks. Victor beams.

 

"She won't notice," he says. "She doesn't play nearly as much as she used to, so as long as I put it back before she notices she'll be none the wiser."

 

Yuuri groans. "She's right, you _are_ a menace."

 

Victor laughs and raises the cake up towards the window, angling it until the sunlight scatters through it and sets it alight. Yuuri feels himself gape at the vividness of gold-toned copper where the light's brightest and vivid mahogany of the shadows, flecks of deep reds and soft amber throughout. The longer Yuuri stares, the more variation he sees from the spider-web scratches from what must be months of constant use.

 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Victor says, and Yuuri can't help but nod. "It's gold rosin. She's only really used it for performances to make the tone clearer, so I'm not surprised she still has one after all these years. I bet she dug it up again just for that remastering." There's a teasing lilt in his voice as he adds, "Gold for gold, hm?"

 

Heat flushes his cheeks, but Yuuri ignores it to lean against Victor. He's warm, and for as old as the bed is he feels comfortable. "I was so close. It kind of pisses me off a little..."

 

Victor hums, a little distant. "It will happen, love. I only said one gold, after all. It'd be bad luck if we tried to change the terms."

 

"Well, _technically_..." Yuuri mumbles, only half-serious, and Victor laughs.

 

"Yuuri, if you try and tell me a _Nationals_ gold is worth the same as a Worlds or a Grand Prix gold, I'll be very disappointed." Victor rests his cheek to Yuuri's temple, and readjusts the angle of the rosin. "Now, tell me. What does this remind you of?"

 

Yuuri blinks, staring again at the spectrum of warm color in Victor's hand. Sure, it's pretty, but it doesn't... really remind Yuuri of anything. The amber bracelets he remembers one of the conservatory students back in Detroit wearing, maybe, and a little like the color of tea, but those don't sound like proper answers. Ultimately, he shrugs, and Victor huffs a laugh.

 

He noses Yuuri's skin, gentle but insistent, and Yuuri turns to face him. Victor's eyes are tender and sweet, and under their warmth Yuuri feels his cheeks flush. "I've always been very weak to lovely things that look even more beautiful in the light," he says, low, and Yuuri feels his heart clench. "And your eyes that night? Were this exact color. Are, even now."

 

A pin drops in Yuuri's head. Distantly and in spite of the embarrassment he feels flaring up in him, he prays that Victor never stops pulling the rug out from under him like this.

 

"Wait," he stammers, his face inflamed. "Wait, you... _Victor_! You can't just--!"

 

Nonchalant, Victor repeats, "Can't what?"

 

"You know what!" Yuuri whines, "I was a _mess_ that night, and you're telling me that besides me making you laugh because I made a fool of myself, you fell for my _eyes_?! Who even says that kind of thing?"

 

"I do," Victor chirps easily, because of course he does. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Yuuri's mouth. Then several more as he continues, "Because it's the truth. You had me so completely captivated, even I was convinced I'd lost my mind. And just when I thought I'd finally come back to my senses, you skate my program..."

 

Yuuri's whines increase as he tries very hard to not combust, which is harder than it sounds when he has to fend off an amorous Victor. His face and the hand he's brought up to try and block Victor's access are peppered in small kisses, though Yuuri will admit that maybe seeing the ring is just making Victor worse. He knows it for fact when he catches Victor's eyes glimmering impishly as his lips linger on the gold band, the way they melt as the arm he's brought up to keep Yuuri close reaches to pull down said hand, how slow he leans in and how painfully soft he brushes their lips together--

 

A loud and far too close _smack!_ makes Victor startle and Yuuri flinch away. They both turn to the source, Victor reaching for his head in petulant shock.

 

"You are a _grown man_ , sorochonok," Nadezhda hisses at Victor, shaking a rolled-up sheaf of music sheets at Victor's face. "You have more medals than I can be bothered to count! You have your fancy clothes, your shiny costumes--" she gestures irritably at Yuuri, who stiffens at the attention, "An engagement ring and a fiancé! _Finally_ , might I add! So why do you keep stealing my rosin?!"

 

Victor tries, "Babulya," but she's not having it.

 

"This wasn't cute when you were a boy and it's still not cute now!" She holds out her palm. Victor wordlessly drops the rosin in it. "If I find anything else missing while you're here, Vityen'ka, I swear to God--!"

 

The mood thoroughly butchered (and the resulting mortification at being caught like a couple of teenagers, oh god) Yuuri wonders if he should be here, because he's pretty sure he shouldn't interrupt. It is kind of funny seeing Victor get treated like a child, though, as much as it's annoyed him so far. This would have completely boggled Yuuri's mind mere months ago and would have still made him gawk even weeks ago, but after everything they've been through it's... refreshing to see Victor so human. Even if that "human" is just being scolded by his grandmother.

 

Maccachin lopes through the now-open door, dashing past Nadezhda's skirts and scrambling into their laps. A quick once-over shows there's no particular reason for it, just that Maccachin suddenly feels like being cuddled. He must really not like the cold very much, despite the full coat and the fact he's inside now.

 

Victor snaps his fingers, interrupting his grandmother's tirade and earning himself another twist of his ear. "Yuuri, you didn't sleep very well on the ride here, right?"

 

Yuuri blinks. "I, um. Slept a little?"

 

It's probably the wrong thing to say, because suddenly Victor's eyes go flat and he turns to Yuuri with a critical eye, thumbing the faint bags under his eyes he's been ignoring.

 

"You're going to nap," Victor orders, the placid tone he uses for coaching front and center. Yuuri gawks. "At home, not here. It will be more comfortable than an old bed, that's for certain."

 

Of course Victor still remembers how Yuuri managed to stress himself out enough to stay wide awake for more than thirty hours. Hell, he probably remembers how bad the long connecting flights to get from Fukuoka to St. Petersburg are. Yuuri really needs to learn how to pick his words better.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri catches Nadezhda's eyes spark.

 

"Nonsense," she says. "Dragging him back out into the cold and onto bumpy old roads for the next hour? He'll be miserable. I bet you haven't even unpacked yet, so he'll be even more uncomfortable. Let him rest here, stay for dinner."

 

Victor turns to his grandmother, an eyebrow raised. "You're being rather pushy, Babulya. We'll be in St. Petersburg for the next few years. There's no rush!"

 

"Easy for you to say, Vityen'ka," she returns coolly. "I'm an old woman. I could die tomorrow, you know. The least you could do is indulge in your grandmother a little."

 

There's a distinct shift of mood Yuuri doesn't like as the two look at each other, and Yuuri's suspicions feel justified when he hears Maccachin whimper in his lap. For the most part, Victor and his grandmother have kept their squabbling in Russian, only shifting to English when they feel Yuuri should be part of the conversation, but this doesn't feel like that at all. This _sounds_ like it should be that kind of conversation, one Yuuri has no place in it, but it's not and he feels like he's eavesdropping despite the fact the conversation is being held right in front of him.

 

Victor's shifted his position. He's between Yuuri and his grandmother again. What does he think Yuuri needs protecting from anyway?

 

"So greedy," Victor says. "If you had it your way, we'd never leave."

 

"Is there something wrong with that?" she asks. "Ungrateful child."

 

Victor's smile sharpens. "You keep forgetting I'm a grown man. Maybe you are getting old."

 

"I mean what I say." Her brows raise. "Perhaps you should settle down for a nap, too, Vityen'ka. You're getting cranky."

 

Okay, this is just getting ridiculous. She's _openly_ talking down on Victor without remorse now, and Yuuri sees how much it grates at Victor. He knows it's not his place, but he doesn't want to have to keep sitting back and watching all this happen.

 

"Whatever you two decide," he chooses, not bothering to hide his own irritation, and makes a point of curling around Maccachin when both of them startle and look at him with differing degrees of guilt. Well, Victor looks guilty. At this point, Yuuri's not sure Nadezhda even knows the meaning of the word. "I can wait."

 

"...Fine." Victor, surprisingly, is the one to buckle first. "Don't expect us long. We're going home right after so he can get proper rest."

 

"Naturally. I'd expect nothing less from you." A pause. "You keep your hands to yourself in my house. You understand that?"

 

"Yes, Babulya."

 

As soon as she leaves, Yuuri asks, in low-toned Japanese, "Is she always like that?"

 

"Mostly. Her kindness isn't freely given. I'm honestly surprised she's taken to you so quickly."

 

Yuuri stares. "That's _kindness_?"

 

"When you ignore the parts where she's upset with me." At the expression Yuuri must be making he adds, "I might have been avoiding her this past year. She's been pestering me to find someone for a while now, and I didn't want her scaring you off."

 

It figures it's something like that. Yuuri suspected the same the last time they met, after all. "She mentioned something about you ignoring her calls, yes."

 

Victor sighs. "Of course she did. Honestly, I wasn't even planning on having you meet her for another few years, but since she already went behind my back..."

 

"Wait." _Wait_. Has Yuuri been reading this wrong the whole time? "Is _that_ what's got you so upset? The fact she went and met me without you being there?"

 

Victor blinks. "Yuuri, you are still one of the strongest people I know, but I have a very clear memory of a noble who was scared speechless of her after only a brief conversation. I don't even remember why she felt the need to put him in his place, just that he was bragging about a hunt." Yuuri stares. "She hasn't been given the name 'Firebird of Russia' solely because she helped revive so much lost culture. She suffers no fool who would try and use others for their own greed, regardless of who they are."

 

Some pieces are falling into place. Yuuri's not sure he likes them.

 

Victor pushes them down, clearly ending the discussion as they land back on the mattress. Maccachin, not too pleased with being upended, wriggles free and curls up between their legs. Yuuri nestles his head against Victor's collar and nuzzles the line of his throat as he gets comfortable.

 

"You sure you want to stay here?" Yuuri asks. Victor breathes a soft laugh and kisses Yuuri's crown.

 

"I will always choose you," he answers, assuring. "But I do have to occasionally indulge the old woman or she'll make everyone's lives miserable."

 

There's a long moment of quiet, and Yuuri starts to drift off with the warmth of Victor's body heat and the soft thrum of his heartbeat.

 

"Huh," Victor says. Yuuri, drowsy, blinks up at him. "You know, I think that was the first time she's ever caught me necking."

 

Yuuri shoves Victor away and ignores him when he laughs, loud, and pleads to be allowed back on the bed with him and Maccachin.

 

* * *

 

 

When Nadezhda calls them down for dinner, Yuuri already can guess this is going to turn into the most passive-aggressive bloodbath he's ever been witness to.

 

He knows Victor's methods, been subjected to them multiple times as Victor tried to figure out how to best approach him. He's been witness to Nadezhda's sharp eyes and tongue, cutting into someone who wasn't even present to defend himself. And while he's seen them obviously interact like they care about each other, he remembers the cold look in Nadezhda's eyes when denouncing Victor's loyalty and the low current of irritation in Victor's when he needled Yuuri about his grandmother's hand in Yuuri's song.

 

Yuuri knows it's hard to be completely open with people you're so close to. He probably gets that better than most, considering how hard it's been for him to just accept that his own family and friends stood by him even when they didn't fully understand. This, though... doesn't quite feel the same. There's hostility here, under the love and affection, and it boggles Yuuri's mind.

 

The fact Maccachin glances around and slowly takes a mouthful of food out of the room with him, tail tucked between his legs, is really just the clincher for what Yuuri knows will be a tense meal.

 

Nadezhda brings in a basket of dark rye bread to join the rest of the spread on the table, a collection of smoked fish, some kind of mixed salad, and a platter of pickled mushrooms. The mushrooms in particular look surprisingly fresh.

 

"One of the neighbors probably shared some of their harvest with her earlier this year," Victor explains as Yuuri nibbles at one after Nadezhda allows them to start, working at her own plate. "It used to be my job, back when I was a little boy."

 

"Don't listen to a word he says," Nadezhda snorts. "The amount of times this boy's gone and gotten himself lost in the woods! But did he care? No, it's all fun and games!"

 

"It was fun," Victor insists. "And I wasn't _lost_ , I made my way home fine every time."

 

She levels a dry stare at him over the table. "Because of the dog. You're damn lucky that dog was so good or you'd still be stuck out there, living off berries and whatever else you find because often enough it wasn't the mushrooms you were _supposed_ to come home with."

 

Yuuri blinks. "That was the dog you mentioned before, right? The other poodle you had?"

 

"Yes, old Tutti," Victor says. "Spent most of her time being a nanny, I swear. She wouldn't leave me alone for a minute!"

 

"Good thing, too," Nadezhda grumbles. "If that dog started making noise, Vityen'ka was up to something."

 

Victor blinks innocently at her. "But Babulya, wasn't I always up to something?"

 

"And that's why that dog hardly shut up," she shoots back. Yuuri stuffs a piece of bread in his mouth to smother his laughter at the grin Victor dons in response, clearly preening about the fact like it's some kind of accomplishment.

 

It seems to be going well enough so far. Sure, the two of them are more... prone to taking potshots at each other than what Yuuri would expect and it's certainly not the sort of behavior Yuuri's used to seeing in his own family, but different people have different dynamics. Maybe he's just been reading the air wrong the whole time. It wouldn't be the first time Yuuri's done that, especially with Victor.

 

As the food on the table whittles down, Nadezhda periodically offers a bright red vodka that smells a bit on the tart side. Victor waves her off and agrees on one shot and one shot only. "We have training tomorrow," he says when she scowls at him for an explanation. "Drinking and arriving at practice first thing in the morning aren't things that go well together."

 

"Excuses," she grumbles, but allows them their peace and single toast. "To health!" she starts, and after she knocks back the glass adds something too low and mumbled for Yuuri to even begin parsing, but Victor only laughs so Yuuri decides it can't be anything too serious. The vodka tastes about the way it smells, tart and a little fruity, but the burn of the alcohol is warming in his stomach.

 

The appetizers gone, Nadezhda takes the plates and carts them off to the kitchen. She shoos Yuuri away with a laugh and a pat on the cheek when he sits up and tries to offer to help, insisting that guests should sit and relax.

 

"This is nice," Yuuri says when she disappears into the kitchen, Maccachin creeping back in for another mouthful of food to take... wherever he's actually eating. The hall? "It's a little quieter than back at Yuu-Topia, but..."

 

Victor smiles at him warmly and leans forward to rest on his palm, batting his eyelashes at Yuuri playfully. "I'll take the fact that only two of us are nearly the same as a room full of people as a compliment."

 

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Yuuri chides, laughing a little. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, though."

 

Victor blinks. "Why would I not?"

 

"You seemed..." How to put it? "You just seemed very tense before. Like you were uncomfortable being here."

 

Victor falls quiet at that. Oh no, should Yuuri have brought that up at all? Maybe he should've just kept it to himself--

 

"You aren't wrong," Victor admits. Yuuri, startled, looks at him a little more closely. There's still a little crinkle between his brows, his smile still slightly forced; this brief moment, with just the two of them, is really the most relaxed Victor's been since they sat down. "As you've seen, my grandmother has a personality that's a bit of an acquired taste. She's pretty exhausting to be around for long periods of time."

 

"She's definitely something," Yuuri agrees. What that something is remains kind of a mystery, but it's not necessarily _bad_. Just... different. "But you know, you _could_ be the one who admits he's tired for once instead of constantly using me as an excuse."

 

Victor smiles far too innocently at him. "But Yuuri, you're the one who had the longer flight! If I tried that, she'd just lecture me more."

 

"You deserve every lecture you get," Nadezhda interrupts as she returns with the main dish, which for once Yuuri can actually identify as beef stroganoff. "You thrive on being a thorn in everyone's side. There's no good explanation for your ridiculousness otherwise."

 

"As much as certain people would agree with you," Victor says primly, sitting upright again, "I do have better things to do than annoy people."

 

Nadezhda looks skyward in a silent prayer for what can either pass as patience or strength as she serves the meal. The gleam in Victor's eyes implies that he's counting that as one of his wins.

 

Conversation lulls as they eat. When topics come up, they're little things, though at some point it devolves into another attempt on Nadezhda's part to embarrass Victor (which is... not working well at all, judging by Victor's own amusement) concerning more of his habit towards sticky fingers and a time he'd managed to pretend he knew magic tricks and legitimately fooled people into thinking it was true.

 

"You're not even trying now," Victor hums, shaking his head. "That's more impressive than general mischief-making and you know it."

 

"Speaking of your mischief-making," Nadezhda recalls, pursing her lips and looking up from her drink with a huff. "Is there a reason you're reusing _that_ program?"

 

Victor raises his head, fork halfway to his mouth. Yuuri feels his face heat up and busies himself with poking around his plate. "It's not like I used that particular program long. It's the one people have seen the least."

 

"For good reason!" she says irritably. "You got hurt last time you tried that! You're older now, you won't recover as fast if it happens again!"

 

Victor shrugs. "I've taken the necessary precautions." Yuuri knows. Oh, he knows. "Without changing the costume, that is. It's as much a part of the performance as the choreography, after all."

 

"I'd say you're going to send Yasha to an early grave, but that would imply he didn't ask for you in the first place," Nadezhda scoffs. "He knows what he's doing."

 

Victor blinks. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about Yakov."

 

"He is, occasionally, a man braver than most," she says blithely. "After all, he's taking you back on, isn't he?"

 

Victor presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "I'm the best thing to ever happen to him and he knows it. Of course he'd take me back!"

 

Nadezhda rolls her eyes and gives Yuuri a pitying look. "You agreed to marry this. You accept your responsibility and keep him in line while working with Yasha, you hear?"

 

"I will," Yuuri says, dry. As he glances back to Victor, he expects more silly flirting, as he's been doing all evening. He's caught a little off-guard by the crinkle in Victor's brow as he eyes his grandmother.

 

"What makes you think Yuuri will be Yakov's responsibility?" he asks. "Do you really think so little of me, not being able to handle one student?"

 

Nadezhda's hands freeze. "I'm sorry?" she says, crisp, eyes narrowing at Victor. "You intend to compete _and_ coach? Have you lost your mind?"

 

"Yuuri does best with me," Victor insists. "And Yakov has been more hands-off with me these past few years due to my experience, so it's not as if I'll be losing much by way of instruction. The scheduling will be the more challenging part, given tournaments sometimes overlap like Nationals, and Yuuri and I skate for different countries and different regions, but it's nothing I can't handle."

 

Nadezhda snorts, unimpressed and sounding thoroughly disappointed. "I suppose it was too good to be true, thinking love would change you."

 

Victor sets his fork down, teeth bared in a smile not even the most dense of reporters would confuse as friendly. "You sound so certain."

 

"Don't take that tone with me," she snaps back, scowling at Victor. "You know how you are, Vityen'ka. You're going to neglect _something_ trying to balance two careers and a relationship, seeing as you couldn't even balance _one_ career with your family obligations."

 

"If Victor's sure he can do it, then I believe him," Yuuri interrupts, a little curt. Nadezhda might mean well (...he thinks?) but he still doesn't have to like hearing someone insult Victor.

 

Her expression is chilled. "Your faith in him is admirable, if misplaced." Yuuri feels his temper bristle, stilled only by manners long since ingrained in him.

 

Victor's hand reaches for his, and the gentle squeeze and the brush of his thumb over Yuuri's knuckles feels like it's meant to be reassuring but Victor's expression remains staid. Nadezhda raises a brow at their exchange but says nothing.

 

"Ah, I missed this," Victor hums, blasé. "Moments like this are why it's so important to see you _once_ a year, Babulya."

 

"Indeed," she returns, acrid. "If only your father could see you now. He'd be so _proud_."

 

Even Yuuri can tell, without any context, how low a blow that's meant to be. Victor's hand over Yuuri's stiffens, and his eyes go icy as his face steels into a dark expression. Yuuri glances over to Nadezhda, scowling a little himself, and sees that same detached aloofness she'd worn during their first meeting, observing and cold.

 

"Would he now," Victor grits out. "I wouldn't have guessed."

 

"Oh, yes," Nadezhda says. "It was all he ever wanted from you, Vityen'ka. Finding real happiness, not letting a childish obsession rule your life. Seeing you like this would have meant the world to him, you know."

 

"Ah." There's an edge Yuuri's not used to hearing in Victor's voice, sharper than his usual cutting tone when he's upset. "Now that sounds more like him."

 

What Victor says next, Yuuri doesn't know. His Russian isn't that advanced, and Victor keeps his voice clipped and quick. Yuuri has no clue what Victor says, but he does know that it can't be good, because Nadezhda's face twists dark even as her eyes burn.

 

From there it's like a mirror of their reunion earlier, a flurry of Russian with the only difference being the iron-weighted tension in the air and the barbed acidity of their tones. Yuuri immediately gives up trying to decipher it on his own. Victor switched languages for a reason, clearly; he hadn't _wanted_ Yuuri to know what he had to say to his grandmother, probably knew Yuuri would've tried to interrupt based on the sole fact they were guests in _her_ house.

 

And, okay. Sure. This is a family matter, something solely between them. Yuuri doesn't need to know. He's the newcomer here, the foreigner who's only in the room purely because of a relationship he didn't even dream was possible last year. It's not like Victor's never been in this position. His Japanese had been barely enough to communicate with Axel, Lutz, and Loop, a couple of preschoolers just shy of kindergarten. Which is still better than what rudimentary Russian Yuuri knows. Every time he thinks he has it, someone shoves a microphone in his face and his mind goes blank.

 

Yuuri stares down at his plate of half-eaten, going-lukewarm meat and noodles. He wonders how rude it is to leave food on the plate here, because he's pretty sure he's lost his appetite listening to this.

 

Abruptly Victor's hand tightens like a vice around his and Yuuri looks back up, startled. What did he miss now?

 

"We're going home, Yuuri," Victor says, and Yuuri's never heard his voice be this level of frigid. "I've heard enough."

 

Yuuri barely has time to respond one way or another before Victor pulls him to his feet and drags him to the shop's front door, without a single glance back towards him or his gaping grandmother. He whistles sharply, once, and Maccachin runs for the door, waiting with drooped ears and looking at the floor. He lets go of Yuuri's hand so they can put on their outerwear and slip into their shoes, and it's as Victor's tugging at the buttons of his overcoat that Nadezhda storms into the room with a wildfire in her eyes.

 

"What do you think this is supposed to prove?" she growls, and Victor ignores her. "All you're doing is the same you've always done!"

 

Yuuri looks between them, uneasiness gnawing at him. He tries, "I'm so sorry, Nadya--"

 

"There's no need to apologize to an old woman like her," Victor interrupts, and Yuuri snaps his head back towards him, stunned and gaping. "We should have left sooner."

 

"And now you won't even talk to me directly!" Nadezhda strides forward. "This is exactly what happened before! Don't you dare think I don't realize this!"

 

Victor takes Yuuri's arm and starts to lead him through the door.

 

Nadezhda's hand whips out, yanking Victor back. Her grip on Victor's sleeve is vice-tight even to Yuuri's eyes, mouth set grim and angry. "Vityen'ka, if you walk out that door on me--!"

 

"You'll what?" Victor snaps, finally facing her, his own anger barely restrained. "Use Yuuri as a messenger again? Hunt me down at the rink? Bombard my mailboxes with phone calls and letters? Continue overwhelming me until I get tired of it and let you have your way?"

 

"If that's what it takes for you to listen, then yes!" She says, "I'm sick of this, too, you know! It's been eleven years! _Eleven years_ , Vityen'ka! How have you not forgiven him?!"

 

Yuuri blinks, but before he can process any of it Victor says, mouth curled up and sword-sharp, "Because he never forgave me, either, did he."

 

For the first time the steel in Nadezhda's expression cracks, and in the brief moment of vulnerability something that can only be described as heartrending makes her grip loosen. Victor is quick to pull his sleeve free and tuck his arm back around Yuuri's shoulders, pushing him towards the street.

 

"We're leaving," Victor repeats, stony. "And until you are willing to treat me like a grown man and not some wayward child in need of discipline, I'd prefer that you don't interfere with my affairs again."

 

He ignores her as she calls for him again, doesn't look back even as Maccachin creeps to a heel next to him. Yuuri has no idea what to do with his hands; he twists at his ring, the only thing he can think of.

 

The streets are dark by now. The only light they can see by is what shines out of windows and the occasional streetlamp every few houses; the sky overhead had high clouds earlier this afternoon, and Yuuri suspects it'll snow soon enough. The air is crisp, and Yuuri is too aware it's not entirely the weather.

 

He's never seen Victor this mad. Yuuri didn't even know Victor _could_ get like this. Well, obviously everyone has their breaking point, but still. This is more than Yuuri ever suspected. His hand is stiff against Yuuri's shoulder, and it's all Yuuri can do to slip his own arm around Victor's waist.

 

It doesn't help. Not like it has before. Victor's strung taut, barely responding.

 

The rented car comes into view. Victor takes his arm back to pull out the keys, and Yuuri slowly trudges over to the passenger side, Maccachin following him. He opens the back for the old poodle, helps him in as Victor slides into the driver's seat and buckles, still scowling in profile when Yuuri takes his own seat up front.

 

Yuuri glances up at Victor as he buckles in as well, lost and wary of the storm in his eyes. "Victor?"

 

"Not now, Yuuri." The ice in his tone shoots straight through Yuuri's veins, freezing him still. Victor's hands tighten on the wheel. "I will not take this out on you. Just... give me time."

 

Victor's been patient with Yuuri all these months when he didn't have to be. Victor's been there for him, kind and sweet when he could have easily been bitter. Victor waited until Yuuri was ready, has always let Yuuri set the pace because he was happy just being with him even with the chance that Yuuri ultimately wouldn't feel the same.

 

Yuuri closes his eyes, counts to slow his racing heart, forces himself to rest back against the seat. "Okay," he says. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here."

 

He doesn't know what's going on, but he knows this: Victor loves him more than anything, and Yuuri will not be someone who takes advantage of that.

 

* * *

 

He bites his tongue, reluctant to start even a casual conversation to try and take Victor's mind off things, until they're in Victor's apartment, the stack of boxes from Hasetsu at home in the main room. It's too late to start unpacking; it's just going to have to wait until the next time they have a few hours free, whether that's tomorrow or the weekend. Maccachin slinks away into the bedroom almost as soon as the door opens, trying to evade Victor's foul mood as best he can.

 

The letter Nadezhda gave Victor earlier this afternoon is tossed to an end table, and its contents clink as it hits the wood. Victor ignores the sound as he shrugs off his coat and scarf, but Yuuri can't help but glance towards it, wondering. Yuuri shakes it off, chiding himself, and slowly peels off his own outerwear.

 

"I'm sorry," Victor says suddenly, and Yuuri looks over to him. His hands are still stiff over his coat as he sets it on the rack, but the frigidity of his face has melted away, leaving him looking far more worn than he dared to show until now. "You've just come back from Japan, tired, and I subjected you to her without any warning or rest. I wanted to catch her off-guard to confront her and I ended up underestimating her."

 

Yuuri's heart lurches. He steps forward, places a hand over Victor's. "It wasn't me she was going after, though."

 

"It was never about you," Victor laughs, sound hollow. He lifts Yuuri's hand on his and presses it to his lips, eyes fluttering closed. "That's why I'm so sorry. This is something I should have done on my own, not try and drag you deeper into something that doesn't affect you."

 

"Victor." Yuuri swallows down the knot in his throat. With his other hand he reaches to brush away Victor's fringe. "Hey. Look at me."

 

Glacier-blue eyes, tired, open and meet his. There are no tears, not like the last time Yuuri saw anything like this expression, but the resignation darkening the lines of Victor's face hurts so much more. His hand shifts down, thumb brushing over the line of Victor's cheekbone. Victor leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut again with a sigh.

 

"Can we stay like this?" Victor asks. "Just a little longer?"

 

"Wouldn't it be more comfortable not standing in the entry?" Yuuri offers.

 

Victor's response is to rest his hands at Yuuri's waist. And then lift him, just like they'd done so many times in practice, and glide the two of them off towards the couch. Yuuri bites back a squawk as he lands first, knees catching the arm of the couch, Victor on top of him and easily slotting himself between Yuuri's legs without preamble.

 

"This isn't really what I meant," Yuuri wheezes. Victor huffs and slips his arms around Yuuri's back and squeezes; Yuuri can feel him smiling against his chest, however feebly. Yuuri sighs, accepting his fate for now, and reaches up to pet Victor's hair.

 

Yuuri's mind goes back to the letter on the table near the door, the odd heaviness of it that clattered against its surface. The look in Victor's eyes as he shouldered all responsibility for how the evening turned out. The assumption that Yuuri isn't _affected_ by any of this.

 

"It does affects me," Yuuri says finally. The smile drops, slowly, into something more neutral. "If it affects you, Victor, it affects me. I get she's your family and that I _shouldn't_ butt in, but..."

 

Victor shifts against him. "This is pretty nosy for you."

 

"Maybe," Yuuri concedes. "I have a good coach. Had to know everything about me before he could work with me, or so it seemed."

 

"Really."

 

"Kind of handsy, too." Yuuri rubs the back of Victor's neck, the soft hairs there silky between his fingers. "And a big flirt, always teasing me like he was some kind of schoolboy. At first It was hard to tell if he was serious about it or just trying to rile me up."

 

"Wow," Victor finally huffs, the sound a little like an amused snort. "What about him gave you that impression?"

 

Yuuri shrugs. "He's pretty famous, and for good reason. He's a genius who thrives on surprising the world at every turn. Everybody loves him. It was hard to believe someone like that would actually mean any of it." His neck flushes a little with something that's always felt like shame, though these days its focus has shifted. "...And even if he did, why would he stick around?"

 

He braces himself for the poke or pinch Victor always does when Yuuri gets self-demeaning. He can feel Victor's fingers twitch against his back.

 

So it catches him off-guard when Victor's hands fist his shirt instead, burying his face deeper in Yuuri's chest and sighing heavily enough to shake his shoulders. Yuuri's hand on Victor's neck stills, settling there as he lifts his head to look at him. Victor has that expression again, Yuuri knows it; just because he can't see it, it doesn't mean it's not there.

 

"Victor," he tries, weak.

 

"Your coach is lucky to have you."

 

Yuuri blinks. Victor continues, voice a little thick, "I know you don't see yourself the way other people do, Yuuri, but your coach saw all that and more. And maybe he didn't expect you to be so shy, but he knew he wasn't wrong about you. The way I see it, he owes _you_ more than he can possibly repay."

 

"My coach should still stop flirting," Yuuri manages. Somehow. "I have a fiancé who means the world to me. I'd hate to break his heart."

 

"What a coincidence," Victor says, finally looking up at him with a soft, teasing look. "So does he. Quite the scandal, too, since they say he's his student."

 

They stare at each other for few moments longer before erupting into something between giggles and proper laughter, the tension in Victor seeping away as he pulls himself forward and nuzzles his forehead against Yuuri's. It doesn't take much for Yuuri to tilt his head and brush his lips to Victor's, who melts with no hesitation whatsoever.

 

"And you wonder why I keep teasing you," Victor hums into the kiss. "So sneaky, Yuuri."

 

"Can't help it," Yuuri hums back. "I did say I wanted every part of you. That includes the parts you don't like."

 

Victor huffs. "I hate those parts."

 

"And I hate the parts of me that keep telling me I'm not good enough," Yuuri says, dry, "but here I am, still here with you."

 

Victor doesn't deign to respond, but the tension in his shoulders is gone. Yuuri resumes his earlier petting, his hand in Victor's hair, nails gentle against his scalp as he relaxes, pulling away to slump into the crook of Yuuri's neck again.

 

"Yuuri," Victor says all of a sudden, and Yuuri makes a noise of acknowledgement. "Do you know why I cut my hair?"

 

Yuuri frowns, thinking. "There was a kid, six years ago. They were stuck in the hospital for something... big, I don't remember what. Treatment was aggressive, so he ended up losing a lot of hair." He looks down to meet Victor's eyes. "You never gave an official statement about it, but you vanished for a week and showed up again with your hair short and that kid had a wig with your exact hair color and style. It was all over gossip sites for weeks."

 

"Gavriil Demetriou," Victor says, sounding a little fond. "You're actually very familiar with his mother's most recent work for me."

 

Yuuri stares. Victor's right; he does know that last name. "She wrote _On Love: Eros and Agape_ ," he manages.

 

"Gavriil is also the vocalist in _Agape_ ," Victor hums, but there's still something distant in his tone. "That's only how I cut my hair, though. Not why."

 

Yuuri frowns. "Why...?"

 

Victor rests his head against Yuuri's again, eyes distant. "It got in the way. It was too much trouble to maintain, everyone recognized it immediately, and no amount of tying it back could completely keep it under control. I had fond memories of it, but none of them mattered when it felt like it was holding me back. So when Theo thanked me for commissioning her, since it allowed her to keep paying for her son's treatment, I saw an opportunity and I took it."

 

Yuuri blinks, the cogs in his head turning. "You gave him your hair because you wanted to get rid of it."

 

Victor makes a soft noise. Nods.

 

The pictures in Nadezhda's home flash through Yuuri's mind, one in particular. He pushes at Victor's shoulders to look at him better, the two of them shifting to a sitting position, and the ache that hits Yuuri when he sees the guilt flash in Victor's eyes is almost enough to make him buckle. "You cut your hair to _spite your grandmother_."

 

Victor winces. "Less... her, and more my father."

 

"Your father," Yuuri echoes.

 

"It wasn't my best moment," Victor says. "The last time we'd talked was when I was seventeen and new to the Senior Division. We... never reconciled."

 

"Your last talk with your father was a _fight_." This is. Well. Worse than what Yuuri expected, actually, which is definitely surprising. Victor's been charmingly refreshing in his lack of personal drama this past year, after all. "Victor, didn't he pass away when you were twenty?"

 

Victor falls quiet, unable to meet Yuuri's eyes.

 

Suddenly, the whole evening -- no, further back from that, the past _few weeks_ make sudden, awful sense.

 

Nadezhda's needle-sharp questioning of Yuuri's resolve, testing how easily he'd cave if Victor decided he'd had enough. Victor's crisp, stilted commentary about his grandmother's changes in _Yuri On Ice_ , which okay, Yuuri could see _some_ of his points but the violin going from perfect to passionate and highlighting the parts of Victor he found hopelessly cute did help center Yuuri. All the pointed insults and begrudging compliments tonight before things cut too close, like another language beyond the English spoken for Yuuri's benefit and the Russian they'd switched to partway when things became heated. Their exchange as Victor decided he'd had enough, the flash of heartbreak in Nadezhda's eyes.

 

(Eleven years, she'd said. Victor would've been seventeen then. The timeline _fits_.)

 

Yuuri groans, mostly to himself, and draws Victor back in, again letting his head rest against Yuuri's collar. The tension in Victor's shoulders buckles almost automatically, his arms quick to wrap around Yuuri again and bury his nose into the hollow of Yuuri's throat. Yuuri traces his free skate onto Victor's back, the best kind of quiet assurance he can give right now. Guess pulling away like that might've scared Victor a little. Probably should avoid doing that in the future.

 

"You need to talk with her," Yuuri says after a long moment to let Victor calm himself. Victor tenses again. " _Properly_ , Victor. Storming out like we did isn't going to fix things. At least open the letter, and read it?"

 

"It's mine to do what I want with," Victor scoffs, tone uncharacteristically bitter for him. "And I'd rather just never look at it again. I'll burn it if I have to."

 

"You aren't curious about what she gave you?" he asks, just to test the waters.

 

"No," Victor grouses as he buries his face into Yuuri's shoulder. "She's lucky we've only just moved in so I don't know where my matches are."

 

Yuuri tries not to roll his eyes. "You keep threatening to burn things, but I've yet to see you go through with it."

 

"Cheap cloth smokes too much," is Victor's grumbled excuse. "Paper is much easier."

 

"Of course."

 

Even like this, with most of the tension gone, there's a sourness to the air that won't leave. It's clear Victor won't budge from his position or opinions, not yet, both emotionally with his grandmother about his relationship with his late father, and physically as he's still clinging to Yuuri without any sign of letting go. They're not going to sleep here, that's for sure. if they do have practice tomorrow, it won't do them any favors to be coming in sore and cranky. But how to convince Victor? He seems like he'd be perfectly fine staying here regardless of what Yakov will say, but just the thought of Victor getting _another_ lecture first thing in the morning sends a shot of irritation through his veins.

 

He has to be able to do more than just _be here_. He can't just-- stand by and _watch_ , not again.

 

(His mother would know what to do. She always did, ever since Yuuri was little. Minako would give him the push he needed, but it was always his mother who would sit with him and listen as he struggled to find the words to say he wanted to try something different. She let him live at his own pace, make decisions on his own, would gently chide Mari and his father if their teasing got too much for Yuuri to handle. She'd supported him, she'd had faith in him even if Yuuri worried for so long that it was misplaced, she'd--)

 

Yuuri's hand stills over Victor's hair. There is something he can do. It's... probably a little dumb, and it's late, but it's _something_ and that's all Yuuri has to go on right now.

 

"Can Maccachin fetch things?" he asks, fully aware of how ridiculous a segue that sounds. Victor looks at him, a little bewildered. "Like, if I ask for something, he'll bring it, right?"

 

It's something Vicchan would do, if Yuuri was preoccupied with his studies and needed something from downstairs or the kitchen. It's how Vicchan _might have_ developed the bad habit of stealing snacks with the intent of presenting them to someone, because Yuuri would get scolded if Minako happened to be in that day. It's a bit of a shot in the dark if Maccachin's had similar training, but it's still one worth taking.

 

Victor hums, thinking. "He might? I used to have him bring me things he wouldn't try to eat, but it's been a while."

 

Yuuri's shoulders slump in relief. "That's perfect," he says. Turning his head, he calls, "Maccachin? Come here!"

 

Maccachin takes a moment, long enough to tempt Yuuri to try again, but he slinks back out of the bedroom and eyes the two of them on the couch. Yuuri makes another beckoning gesture as Victor shifts and looks over at his dog, as well.

 

"I guess I worried him, too," Victor sighs into Yuuri's ear, sounding guilty. "What do you need him to get?"

 

Yuuri doesn't want to ruin the surprise, but Victor might be better at convincing Maccachin to cooperate right now. "My bag from the plane. There's something important in there I had to show you, but..."

 

Victor nods. "Consider it done," he says, and states the command in Russian. Maccachin's ears finally prick up, tail wagging for what seems like the first time in hours before trotting towards the entrance where they'd left all the bags. He stops by the couch on his way, nosing at their faces and licking both of them before being shooed away to continue his task.

 

He eventually drags the bag over when he finds it, zeroing in on what Yuuri can only assume is the smell of the treats still in there. He drags it over by the strap, and as he approaches them again Yuuri presses a hand to Victor's shoulder to get him to sit up, though he's still not surprised when Victor's arms instead fall to Yuuri's waist to continue holding onto him. Yuuri fishes out the bag of treats and hands Maccachin one, and Victor reaches down to scratch Maccachin behind the ear before their dog retreats for another room to sleep the night away in peace.

 

Yuuri's face flushes as he digs through the bag. "My family, uh. Made us a housewarming gift. Kind of." When he finds it he presses the notebook into Victor's hands, only daring to glance up to Victor's face through his lashes. "It's not much, I know, but my mom... Well. You know how she is."

 

Victor makes the same expressions Yuuri did as he takes the notebook and starts to turn the pages. What traces of anger and hurt remain from earlier melt away as he takes in Yuuri's mother's handwritten recipes, the English translations Mari provides, the pictures Yuuri's father collected and pasted on. So Yuuri knows, from more than just the pages turning, when Victor ends up on the page that matters most. Did his face twist like that, eyes suddenly going bright, lips just barely quivering? He must have, even if all he remembers is his mother's sad, sweet smile.

 

"She said we should try," Yuuri says. "To celebrate."

 

"Celebrate?" Victor repeats. "Nationals? Moving in?"

 

Yuuri looks up. "Anything, I guess." he says, voice soft. "Whatever reason felt right."

 

"Any reason?" Victor asks. The spell the recipe book has on him breaks as he meets Yuuri's eyes, even as he keeps gripping it between his hands. "Any reason at all?"

 

Yuuri nods, slow. Victor's eyes close as he shuts the notebook, and he sets it on the arm of the couch before leaning back into Yuuri's space. He tilts Yuuri's head back to meet his deepening stare, fingers threaded through Yuuri's hair, and though once this would have sent his heart racing in rabbit-like terror now there is only a thrum of something he's come to anticipate. Everything else that's happened today doesn't matter right now. What does matter is the fact Yuuri is here, with Victor, after a long five days apart to solidify their future together. What matters is the road ahead and the fact they're going to fight to keep walking it side-by-side, damn what anyone else says or thinks.

 

"Then let's celebrate us," Victor breathes, and Yuuri lets his eyes flutter shut as they meet halfway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: This chapter contains **intense family drama** and as a result has scenes that can be read as **manipulative and/or abusive** , though it is not the intent. [Return to read chapter from beginning.]
> 
> ADDITIONAL NOTES:  
> -The flowers Victor gives his grandmother are left vague because every idea I had for them were equally entertaining/apt: heather for "admiration and solitude", hyacinth for its status as a sports flower and its symbolism of "rashness and forgiveness", lilac for everything between "first love" and "concern" depending on shade, lavender for "refinement and elegance" as well as the fact the smell can be headache-inducing... and African violets because it's such a _typical_ old lady gift.  
>  -Yes, this is a family birthday get-together. The ear pulling is a Russian birthday tradition (string players just have strong fingers) and since Victor and Yuuri are the guests in her house Nadya's the one providing the food. Though uh. Don't storm out because grandma's being grandma. (Thank you to [mistralle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mistralle/pseuds/mistralle) in the comments for the correction!)  
> -The "bridge" to clean up the loose ends between Episode 10's stinger reveal and what was already written in if music be the blood of love that I mentioned briefly on Tumblr addresses the whole _On Love: Eros and Agape_ thing in better detail, but this is still the most relevant it will be. It's just simpler to namedrop background characters whose names would reasonably be known than write around them.  
>  -Yes, that's a "fade to black". I have a rating to keep and I'm not bumping _that_ up too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....honestly all I have to say for myself is that real life sucks (I got sick three separate times! How!?) and that I literally had to rewrite this whole thing at 7000+ words into the original chapter.

"Yurio, stalking generally works better when the person being stalked doesn't know it." Victor doesn't even bother looking up, thumbing through the booklet Yakov had, rather unceremoniously, thrown at him the moment he showed up at his hotel room in Ekaterina for Nationals. "I would've thought you'd learned better by now, considering how enthusiastic your fans are."

 

Out of the corner of his eye, the small figure lurking on the other side of the doorframe jerks and stills, suspicious for a long moment before letting out a huff and sulking through with something between teenage prickliness and the careful poise of the cats he likes so much. Which, naturally, isn't as graceful a combination as Yuri would like to think he's being even with the ballet training Lilia's been reconstructing for him. Distantly, Victor wonders if he looked nearly that ridiculous when he'd been young.

 

…No, that isn't possible. He didn't _skulk_ anywhere, even when he made mistakes.

 

Hands shoved into his pockets and hood up, Yuri is already scowling his usual displeasure at life as Victor drags a highlighter over a line of text that looks important and slips a paperclip next to the line before folding the booklet shut. He has his street clothes on, and judging by the hour Victor suspects he's on a mandatory practice break that he's not too happy about.

 

"You're seriously _studying_ to be a better coach," Yuri says, burning holes into the booklet with the intensity of his stare. "You're actually serious about this whole stupid plan of yours."

 

"Yuuri managed an undergraduate degree while skating competitively," Victor says blithely. "A simple course on sports psychology is hardly as intensive."

 

Yuri looks skeptical, but then again he always does. "You have better things to do. Your scores at Nationals weren't _that_ great. You shouldn't be slacking off with training for Katsudon's sake!"

 

Ah, this again. "That, Yura, is a different kind of consequence," Victor hums, leaning forward to rest his chin in his palm. "It's an annoying little thing called 'pettiness'. Technically, my programs were sound. Artistically, I felt they were my best in years. However, that's ultimately up to the audience, and though they were glad to have me back, the judges and the FFKK are more annoyed that I left at all."

 

Yuri's eyes narrow. "So you're going to have to work twice as hard to get them off your flighty ass, basically."

 

"Yes." There's no point sugarcoating it. Yuri's young, but he's not naïve. "And no, I don't regret it. I've had to regain their favor in worse conditions than this before."

 

"Yeah, because you keep _pissing them off_ ," Yuri snaps. "Georgi says half the rulebook is because of shit you did when you were younger."

 

Victor laughs. "Let it never be said that I don't keep them on their toes! Tell me, how _did_ they react to you when you showed up with that old _Serafim_ costume at Skate Canada?"

 

Yuri squints at him suspiciously. "…Pissy. Why?"

 

"Ah," Victor sighs, leaning back with a widening grin, "just as I thought. The rules for Juniors don't apply on the Senior level. No one made a fuss over Yuuri, but I couldn't be sure if it was because no one wanted to where I could hear it."

 

It takes a moment, but Yuri's face goes slack with realization before twisting irritably. "Oh fucking _hell_ , Victor! If I got underscored because of your stupid stunts--!"

 

"Most of the top half of that costume is _mesh_ , Yura," Victor laughs. "It's not like you didn't know what you were agreeing to when you picked it!"

 

"I fucking hate you so much," Yuri spits. "Just because you're the darling of Russia and can do a bunch of stupid shit for the thrill of it, it doesn't mean that the rest of us have that kind of immunity!"

 

"I said before that you have to do the opposite of what people expect, or you'll never surprise them," Victor says, unphased. "If there's no rule against it, it's fair game, and even the highest members of the board can't make rules against what they don't know is coming. Why do you think I've lasted this long with a reputation of being unpredictable?"

 

Yuri leans forward, green eyes narrowed venomously. "Unlike you, asshole, my family _needs_ me to survive." He hisses, "I can't go around doing stupid shit because I'm _bored_."

 

"Says the boy who apparently needled his family so he could get permission to travel to Japan on his own," Victor returns lightly. "Which, in hindsight, would explain your particularly foul mood those first few days. You never do end a phone call with your mother well."

 

"You _owed_ me a program and instead ran off to go play house with Katsudon instead of actually whipping him back into shape!" Yuri reminds him angrily. Which is false, considering that time was spent dropping Yuuri's weight back to an acceptable competitive number so he wouldn't stress his body further, but Victor can see how an agitated teenager would jump to that conclusion without much context. "And like you can talk! When's the last time you actually talked with Nadezhda Pavlovna? If that old crone comes storming in here again because you never fucking _call her_ \--!"

 

"She won't."

 

Even if Victor didn't feel the steel in his mouth as he clipped out the words, he could certainly hear it. It's sharp enough to cut off Yuri's angry rant, momentarily leaving him speechless and confused. Victor opts to take this opportunity to pick his booklet back up and reread the chapter and notes. It might have been a little over a week since that night, but even the memory of it still sends a shot of scalding hot anger fresh into his veins.

 

She had no right. It was one thing to witness her righteousness as an innocent, uninvolved bystander or even to be subjected to a version of it as he's gotten used to over the past six years and became further embedded in his career and its routine. But to get the full force of it, to be talked down on like a small child who should theoretically know better, to be treated like he'd done something _wrong_ for wanting to fight for Yuuri and proving it? For her to decide that not only did she need to go behind Victor's back to see if he was actually serious, but to throw a reminder of what she considers to be Victor's biggest failure in his face when he confronts her on that?

 

(Yuuri still has not let Victor burn his father's letter to him, though admittedly he hasn't had to try hard. Victor's buried himself in training, coaching, and studying, pointedly ignoring the old envelope still on the end table. He's half hoping Maccachin will get bored while they're gone for the day and shred it like he used to with magazines containing perfume samples. It would keep his hands clean of the whole affair.)

 

Yuri's collected himself by now, glare renewed with suspicion. "What did you do?"

 

"She's old. I'm an adult," Victor says, aiming his tone for airy and ending up a little more bitterly than he'd like. "We have our own lives and she knows this."

 

" _Bullshit_ ," Yuri snaps. Victor manages not to snort, but it really is funny in an abstract sense given his grandmother's insistence on putting her nose into everything. "I knew something's been up with Lilia Stepanovna, but I thought it was because of Katsudon's ballet teacher back in Hasetsu upping her standards! Not because you managed to piss off one of her friends here in St. Petersburg!"

 

Victor pauses, only barely taking his eyes off his booklet. "What?"

 

Yuri stares. "Katsudon didn't tell you." He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Of course he didn't tell you. Stupid pig."

 

" _Yuri_."

 

"Lilia Stepanovna won't speak English with him," Yuri says, folding his arms over his chest. "At all. She won't let anyone else speak English with him, either. I get snapped at and shooed away to the other side of the studio if I try. Even Yakov gets glared at if he tries to tell Katsudon anything in English when she's around. She says it's for his own good."

 

Victor's forcibly set down his booklet by the time Yuri finishes his explanation, knuckles white and lips thin. This sounds like the exact kind of thing Yuuri wouldn't tell him, actually. Because of course he'd think Lilia was that strict, and to a degree he's right; it takes a _lot_ to earn Yuri's respect, and there's no doubt that Lilia has it when she's the only one besides his grandfather who can actually make him stop swearing a blue streak every time he's even remotely upset. Not to mention he's still used to Minako's loud, sharp directions and fiercely critical eye. He wouldn't bat an eye at Lilia ignoring the language barrier when he's done ballet for most of his life. But still, Yuuri doesn't need this additional stress when he's training.

 

"I think I need to have a talk with her," Victor decides briskly. "It's still six weeks until Four Continents, but I'd like not adding to Yuuri's workload so heavily when he's only just started settling in."

 

"We," Yuri reminds him just as briskly, "have _three_ weeks until Europeans. You need to get your act together before then so the FFKK gets off your ass. If I'm beating you, I want it to be because I _earned_ it, not because a bunch of old bastards are holding a grudge against you."

 

Victor frowns at him. "Yura--"

 

"Katsudon should've won gold in Barcelona and we both know it," he snarls, startling Victor. "If the judges didn't get so worked up over the fact you two actually took it seriously and didn't spend that opening fucking _flirting_ where everyone can see, he would've beat me. Just like they overscored JJ when he kept flubbing jumps and his presentation was _shit_ , just like Otabek should've been scored higher since both his programs were _clean_ , just like your stupid Swiss friend should've gotten higher than fifth for doing the world a favor and keeping his libido to himself for _once_ and the Thai guy got the fucking short end of the stick. They were pissy at you and took it out on everyone else, and it's not fucking fair for any of us!"

 

"They were harsh for penalizing his presentation like that," Victor agrees. "But if he had won--"

 

"He would've taken it and bowed out like the fucking coward he is, I _know_ ," Yuri grumbles. "That's one of the only reasons I'm not tearing into them publically for this bullshit. Unlike _somebody_ , I don't actually go looking for trouble."

 

Yuri straightens, shoving his hands back in his pockets. Shoulders back and stiff, even hunched, it's not hard to see the scrappy fighter in him that had, years ago, caught Victor's eye and curiosity among the would-be Juniors. It's definitely not hard to see how he'd beaten Victor's short program record almost a month ago. That he'd swallow his pride and accept a gold medal he didn't think he'd rightfully earned -- such a turnaround from last year when he hadn't cared as long as his total points were highest -- because not accepting it left everyone worse off in his eyes shows just the kind of selflessness Victor had hoped to inspire in him.

 

"I'm telling you this because I should've figured that Katsudon wouldn't for the same reasons," Yuri repeats, voice firm. "Talk with Stepanovna to get it off your chest, for what little good it'll do, but _focus on Europeans_. This whole season's been a clusterfuck because of you so you have to fix it!"

 

Victor sighs, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Fine. I'll speak to Lilia, and then I'll return to practice and save studying for the evenings."

 

"You'd better," Yuri scoffs. "Fucking nerds, both of you."

 

* * *

 

Really, this whole week has been too easy.

 

Yakov got out most of what he wanted to say during Nationals, ending with grumbling about Victor's carelessness. Yuri spat irritably at any and everyone who approached after Victor sniped gold from him despite his rushed training, never mind the fact that Victor's never really stopped skating even in Hasetsu, especially considering that he and Yuuri had needed to practice for the ice dance variant of _Stay Close To Me_ anyway. Yuuri spent a lot of transit time to and from different areas of the center glued to his phone, though the purpose of which was entirely to have access to a language dictionary for translating purposes. Mila, Georgi, and… Irina, was it? teased a little but otherwise kept to themselves, focused on training with Europeans around the corner.

 

But there had been a veil of unease over them. Everyone glanced towards the doors whenever they opened a little too loud. Yakov periodically made faces that might have been out of relief as women strode by in low heels, though the one time it was Lilia she'd scowled at him so deeply Victor was sure that if they'd still been married Yakov would've been kicked out of the house. Georgi had actually lunged for the other end of the rink when a flash of red caught their eyes in the crowd out in the lobby one afternoon.

 

It occurs to Victor that other than his conversation with Yuri earlier where he'd implied contact, he never actually told his rinkmates or Yakov the truth about where he and Yuuri had been. No one but Lilia seemed to know, given her unbecoming treatment of Yuuri during the two hours Yuuri used the center's studio. Which, Victor knows, he needs to correct.

 

This year, for all the fun he's been having and for how much he's gained, has been challenging for him. It's been so long since Victor's had to stop and consider someone else, and it's showed at the worst moments. He's good at mimicry; not so much the actual thing. He's never cared enough before Yuuri to _want_ to be good at the real thing, even when it wasn't easy and he struggled.

 

(It has been so, so long since Victor struggled and still wanted, still needed to prove that he could do it and do it right. And Yuuri? He has far more to give in return than the ice and the songs it lets him play ever will.)

 

Victor knows he won't always be successful. He knows he'll make mistakes. It's been only a year since he and Yuuri first crossed paths, not even that since they first properly met. Yuuri's grumbled in the mornings, sometimes, that they're crazy for getting so swept up in such a short amount of time because his parents and the Nishigoris might've settled down younger than most but they'd had their childhoods to get to know each other. Georgi's a good example of how they could be gone wrong.

 

But in that time, Victor's learned that he is perfectly capable of admitting when he's wrong. He's learned how to recognize a mistake, and though he's still inexperienced at it he has learned how to mitigate the damage. If nothing else, Victor has learned what is probably the most important thing: how and when to apologize and make up for those mistakes. How to step back and breathe, how to sit and wait instead of constantly being on the move. How, in any relationship meant to last, there is give as much as take in equal parts.

 

Yuuri and his family had been kind to Victor and his bare-bones grasp on Japanese when he'd first arrived in Hasetsu. It's only fair that Victor ensures that Yuuri has a similar ease of transition here in St. Petersburg. If he has to go toe-to-toe with Lilia Stepanovna herself, who Victor has not really spoken with in eight long years, then so be it.

 

Ultimately, he waits until after practice is over for both of them, the dark of dusk already dimming the sky outside though the hour is barely considered evening, as it does this far north at this time of year. Mila, through her friendly rivalry with Sara Crispino and their brief monopolization of Yuuri during the banquet in Barcelona when Victor had gotten distracted, has loudly and openly declared Yuuri her new friend and that she's kidnapping him for the next few hours and Victor's not allowed to follow.

 

The look on Yuuri's face is… well. Similar to the look he sometimes gets when Minako is particularly drunk.

 

"Please bring him home in one piece," Victor tells her, dry and amused. Yuuri makes a wounded noise that might be betrayal but without the hurt. "We still haven't finished unpacking."

 

"Oh, don't you worry, Vitya. I know," Mila says. "That's where we're headed. And I'm taking Zhora and the little Yuri with me, too!"

 

Yuri, who'd been browsing through his phone, snaps his head up with wide eyes. "What? No! I have better things to do than help those two slobs unpack--!"

 

"I've seen how you keep your locker, Yura," Georgi says just as easily, making him sputter indignantly. "You have no room to talk."

 

"You really don't have to," Yuuri tries, but Mila laughs and reaches around his shoulders to pinch his far cheek. Yuuri freezes, looking at Victor with confused, slightly concerned eyes.

 

"You're doing _me_ a favor, Yuuri," she insists with a bright smile. "My neighbors are back from their vacation and they are _terrible_ and I'm sick of watching them eat things I can't right now, so I'd rather wait until they're all dead from jetlag or food comas or whatever." She pulls his cheek. "Besides, we still need to think of a name for you! Yura's getting grumpy about there being two Yuris here, and calling you Victor's Yuuri or the Japanese Yuri is too on the nose."

 

"Like I said, Katsuki is fine…"

 

"Too formal!" Georgi huffs. Victor tries not to laugh as Yuuri makes a face that looks like he's trying very desperately to vanish into thin air. "Ah, it would be easier if our little Yura would accept it, but he'll just throw a fit if we started calling him Yurochka…"

 

"Oh, _hell_ no," Yuri hisses. " _I_ had to get the stupid nickname while I was in Hasetsu. It's Katsudon's turn since this is _my_ rink!"

 

"We'll decide later," Mila says, letting go of Yuuri's cheek finally and waving off the low-simmering temper. Yuuri, while she's distracted, tries to subtly rub the redness from his face. "Come oooon, I want to poke through Victor's things while he's busy with coach stuff! Did you bring anything interesting from Japan? Huh?"

 

"So really, you're just stealing my fiancé to get into my apartment," Victor laughs. Yuuri looks at him askance, a little more desperate to break free. "At least let me have a moment with him before you go?"

 

"Don't you have plenty of those already?" Mila teases, but she lifts her arm off Yuuri's shoulders and gives him a little push forward. "Well, hurry up!"

 

Yuri snorts, answering one last text before putting away his phone. "You only have yourself to blame if those two get clingy again." Mila turns to stick her tongue out at him.

 

Victor shakes his head at them, distantly recalling his own teenage antics when he'd been their respective ages. It's hard to believe how much the two of them have grown in his months away, but kids their age grow like weeds at the first sign of spring. About as persistent and annoying, as well.

 

"Are you really going to leave me alone with them?" Yuuri asks. His tone's a little dry and disbelieving, but thankfully there's only a thin thread of discomfort along with it that's pretty much on par with getting Yuuri to try new things. "In a place I still don't know all that well?"

 

"Maccachin will protect you," Victor says breezily. "If nothing else, I'll only be here three hours more at most."

 

Something seems to flit across Yuuri's eyes, and before Victor can do more than recognize it Yuuri's closed the space between them, hands dropping from his bag's straps and raising them instead to curl around the corners of his jaw. Victor bends easily with the pull down, pliant as he's given the smallest, quickest peck right on the tip of his nose.

 

Yuri spits, choking on the water he'd tried to swallow, but Victor's not sure if it's his usual alarm whenever something like this happens in front of him -- he handles the fading love bites he'd accidentally gotten an eyeful of surprisingly well for all his complaints; a helping hand off the ice and soft glances exchanged garner far more defensive posturing -- or just because he hadn't expected Yuuri to initiate anything, considering how professional he insists on staying while they're at the center. Mila snorts, slapping a hand over her mouth and her eyes crinkling. Georgi also makes a noise, though it's hard to tell if it's happy or amused or wistful.

 

Yuuri falls back flat onto his feet, cheeks dusted pink, and drops his hands to Victor's shoulders. Victor blinks at him, feeling warm himself.

 

"So you'll remember to come back soon," Yuuri says by way of explanation, glancing aside. His hands tighten. "I, uh... I'll see you then?"

 

Oh, the little _tease_. "That," Victor whines, "was very unfair."

 

"You're letting your rinkmates kidnap me to ransack your apartment," Yuuri huffs, eyes flashing. "I call _that_ unfair."

 

"It's not ransacking if they're willing to take care of our things for us." And then Victor can happily see them out the door. With compensation, of course. He's not stingy.

 

Yuri makes a face. "Then I'm 'ransacking' your kitchen if I have to be a part of this." He jabs his thumb to the doors behind him. "Katsudon! Let the old man do his job and get moving!"

 

He stomps off with a huff, and Mila laughs as she again grabs Yuuri's coat sleeve and drags him along with her after. One last, vaguely pleading look to end his suffering quickly and an indulging, amused wave is their last interaction before they exit the glass doors and head out into the street.

 

Georgi leans over, pulling on his overcoat to follow at his own pace. "I've been meaning to ask for some time now, but tell me," he starts, far too amused, "how is it like to have to re-earn Yura's favor just because you make his oh so cool and collected idol act so love-struck?"

 

Victor laughs weakly. "I want to keep poking fun at him because he has the best reactions, but I can't say I understand why seeing the people he admires happy annoys him so much."

 

"Love makes fools of us all, Vitya." Georgi nods solemnly. He claps Victor's shoulder as he passes. "He'll be fine once he's accepted that neither of you are worse for it."

 

* * *

 

Victor can't say he's surprised to see Yakov already sitting at his desk, as uncomfortable as he looks to have to further accommodate Lilia with some of the old throws and pillows on the couch from before their divorce. Lilia notices, too, and her face twitches in what is probably a desire to snap at Yakov for being uncharacteristically shy and chivalrous. He wonders if he should take notes, then decides against it. There are probably more reasons than the obvious as to why they ultimately parted ways, and though they're amicable now for business it's not as if they're picking up where they left off.

 

He takes his own seat and pulls out his books to again go over what he'd put aside earlier this afternoon. The reminder, of course, does not help his concentration.

 

Though it doesn't really involve Yakov, Yuri's comments have him complicit in Lilia's behavior and it bothers Victor more than he'd care to admit. Yakov's always been more for tough love in training, not fond of babying his students because he has better things to be doing. It'd worked fine for Victor, even as a child himself because he's always been ahead of the curve and appreciated the freedom he earned so long as he kept performing to his potential -- and Yakov always let him know if he felt Victor was slacking off, getting lazy as he racked up medals and honors that eventually became a stream of gold and titles that matched his name. Still, Yakov is cantankerous but kind under his grisly old face; would he really just allow Lilia to speak so curtly and rudely to a skater on his rink, even if Yuuri wasn't one of his own?

 

He chances another glance to the throws and pillows on the couch. He might, if it meant avoiding Lilia's wrath. He's always been weak when it came to Lilia.

 

"Victor," she says, interrupting his train of thought. She probably caught him staring then. Oops. "You are distracted this evening. Why?"

 

Lifting his eyes from the couch's dressings to Lilia's stern face, Victor smiles thinly. "Ah, I'm just not used to the language the text uses. I've never really used it before, after all. It's a little overwhelming."

 

Lilia's eyes narrow at him, her lips pursing. Victor allows himself the spark of satisfaction.

 

"Use the glossary like I said, Vitya," Yakov grumbles from his paperwork, not bothering to look up. "We need your head on straight for your comeback and I won't have this distracting you when you already have so much to do."

 

"Of course, Yakov," Victor says, stressing a relieved tone to his words. Yakov stills suspiciously but that doesn't matter. It's not the point he's trying to make. "Leading by example is best, after all. I wouldn't want my Yuuri to stress himself out over things he doesn't need to worry about just yet, either."

 

The way Yakov almost bodily cringes and the dark twist of Lilia's face are exactly the reaction Victor needs to confirm what he's heard after his chat with Yuri earlier today. He smiles up at them, teeth bared and eyes hard.

 

"You need to worry less about Katsuki and more about yourself," Yakov says, scowling. Victor notes the twitch above his brow, a vein swelling on his bare scalp. "I told you before I can't protect you. You need to prove yourself to them on your own, or you'll lose their respect for good."

 

"I don't know," Victor sighs, leaning forward and propping his chin in his palm. He never takes his eyes off them, still staring hard. "Maybe I need someone to talk me through it. Just because I've grown up around this sort of thing, it doesn't mean I can follow it in conversation when it's dressed up so differently."

 

Lilia hisses out a long, low breath and straightens her shoulders. "Speak to me frankly, Victor. There is no need to drag out this game."

 

Victor leans back himself, letting his eyes go wide. "Oh, so you can compromise. I was wondering!"

 

" _Vitya_ ," Yakov warns, scowling. "Lilia is a resource you and Katsuki are using alongside Yuri. Treat her with respect."

 

"I don't want to hear about respect from you, Yakov," Lilia snaps. Yakov grits his teeth but holds his tongue. She turns back to Victor coolly. "I also don't want to hear about respect from a spoiled brat who thinks he's in the right to insult a woman who has supported him his whole career."

 

Game, set-- "So you've been in contact with my grandmother, then, I presume?"

 

Lilia frowns at him. "As I've been staying at my home here in St. Petersburg to assist in Yuri Nikolaevich's training, I believe you already know the answer to that." --And match.

 

"Vitya," Yakov starts, low and suspicious. "What did you do?"

 

"Saved us from further distraction this season," is Victor's response, purposefully airy. "I have no intentions of dealing with her until after Worlds when there's actually time for it. It's far less stressful for everyone that way, don't you think?"

 

Lilia frowns at him. "I suspected as much, but I expected differently from you, Victor. I know for fact you've been brought up better than that."

 

Victor shrugs. "You know me and surprises."

 

"Dammit, Victor!" Yakov snaps, slapping his desk. "Haven't you done enough damage this year? We don't need you trying to cut ties with your one ally! Even if she's a pain in my ass--!"

 

"Yakov." Lilia doesn't raise her voice for Yakov to click his jaw shut with a snap. She doesn't need to; a lesson, Victor thinks wryly, she must have learned from his grandmother. "You know Nadya. She will not abandon Victor, no matter how furious she is with him."

 

Yakov snorts. "If anything, the old woman gets worse when she's mad at him. Which we don't need now, with Victor's _proper_ retirement on the horizon!"

 

Victor levels a mock hurt look at Yakov. "That's two people today who have laughed at me. Do I really look like I can't handle both?"

 

"Vitya," Yakov starts, exasperated, "if there is any one quality about you that I know too damn well, it's that you're single-minded. Right now, you are attempting to go against your nature, and it's going to swing in Katsuki's favor because you're twenty eight and attempting _The Gatekeeper_ again. Do you even remember what happened last time?"

 

Victor sighs, closing his eyes as he rests his chin in his palm. "I overcorrected on a spin and gave myself a grade two sprain in my knee."

 

"It was a _grade one_ sprain that your stubbornness to finish the Grand Prix Finals made worse because you lied to my face about seeing the physician on site," Yakov growls. "You barely pulled yourself onto the podium with bronze and spent the rest of the season _recovering_ from a stupid mistake that you wouldn't have even made if you weren't so stubborn about that costume choice!"

 

Lilia sighs. "How have blindfolds not been banned for performances again?"

 

"I believe they thought they could outsmart me with the 'no props' rules, but I already accounted for wardrobe malfunctions." He waves a dismissive hand at Yakov's dark glower and Lilia's dry one. "Besides, I changed my sequences so that everything flows better, and because of Yuuri's vision being like it is I've had assistance in learning how to navigate a rink half-blind since then." Also, at least the sheer fabric for the blindfold part of the costume was anchored to the back of his collar; last-second swap or not, Yuri's Exhibition Skate at Barcelona undoubtedly ruffled plenty of feathers among the administration. "But that's neither here nor there. It's come to my attention that Lilia may not be as impartial as she'd like to believe she is."

 

"Did I ever claim to be impartial?" she asks. "No. Minako Okukawa has allowed him to be lazy for too long, soft as she is. He has his glossary to translate the words I speak into words he knows. He will learn just fine."

 

"He's just come from Japan nine days ago and spent five years in America," Victor reminds her. "He needs time to adjust. Throwing him straight into learning a new language very different from both of those is not what I consider an easy transition when he still needs to focus on refining his programs for the Four Continents and the Worlds."

 

"Which is repetition and mindless at its core, as all practice is. Let the man have something else to focus on," Lilia scoffs. "This needless fussing isn't like you, Victor. I think this is the greatest proof you are most definitely your father's son."

 

"And here I always thought Yakov had managed to drive you away," Victor answers briskly. "But I see it was more two-sided than I'd imagined."

 

"Viktor Anatolievich," Lilia snaps. The use of his patronymic makes Victor's nerves crackle more than he'd like to admit, and he knows the smile on his face would not pass muster had this moment been covered by the press. Still, Lilia does not care, and only purses her lips at him. "You yourself were drawn to Katsuki's musicality. Do not assume that the rest of us are deaf to it because you were the one he _asked_."

 

Yakov groans, rubbing his temples. "Lilia, Victor. Will one of you tell me what's going on, and what this has to do with Nadezhda Pavlovna and Yuuri Katsuki?"

 

"As you know, Nadya chose to see Katsuki with her own eyes in Moscow," Lilia explains, and of course Yakov would have known about that, too. Of course. "Katsuki got Nadya's approval. She would like that he has a quick transition to make it easier for him. She did not, however, choose to tell Victor of this. Victor has been pouting since."

 

"I see we're not mentioning the fact that Yuuri was told to keep this from me or the fact she went behind both our backs to even create a remastering to her liking." Victor crosses his arms. "Also, _she_ would like a quick transition? Yuuri lives with me. If anyone should be assisting his transition into Russia, it should be me."

 

"You would coddle him," Lilia says. "Surely you know better by now than to think that helps."

 

Yakov, miserably, doesn't even look up at them as he bends down and opens a drawer. Lilia makes a displeased noise as Yakov pulls out a bottle of vodka and a shot glass, setting them firmly on his desk. "I actually miss the days when it was Tolya who'd show up as a messenger," he grumbles as he unscrews the top of the bottle. Lilia's glare is sharp, but Yakov merely pours himself a drink. "No drama, only overexcited children and Vitya whining that he wanted to practice more while being physically carried out."

 

Victor goes silent, feeling his chest burn and tighten. It's rare that the name 'Tolya' ever crosses Yakov's lips, even rarer in front of Victor because he knows all too well how sharp it cuts. Most of the skaters who knew the man are gone; only Georgi and Victor himself are left who would know why.

 

"No drama," Lilia echoes darkly. "Really, Yakov. After what Tolya did?"

 

"I'm not saying I agreed with the man!" Yakov snaps at her. "But other than that moment of stupidity, he kept his damn opinions to himself! Of course I'd prefer him to Nadya's constant bitching!"

 

"I thought we agreed," Victor interrupts, "that he's not to be brought up here."

 

Lilia shoots Victor a look. "Then perhaps you should be less maudlin like your father and more sensible like your grandmother. We would all be better off."

 

Victor snaps his book shut. Is this how she wants to play this? Fine, Victor won't bother holding back. "If you are going to blatantly punish Yuuri because my grandmother is mad at _me_ , then I will look for other resources to better suit his needs," he says, baring his teeth with a flash. "You may be a former prima of the Bolshoi, but you are far from the only one."

 

The offense on Lilia's face is dark and bitter, just as satisfying as a shot of espresso. She wanted sensible, she'll get it; nothing is more sensible than ensuring his one and only student isn't being bullied by someone who he won't bother defending himself against.

 

"Both of you, shut your mouths!"

 

Victor turns to look at Yakov, who has slammed his glass down and stands, hunched over his desk and face stormy.

 

He glowers at Victor first. "I've told you this a hundred times, Victor -- keep your habit of burning bridges out of your professional life, or you aren't going to have one. Not everyone will be impressed by your name or face." He turns to Lilia. "And you! What the hell did that old woman tell you about Katsuki that makes you think you have the right to undermine his coach? I don't care how inexperienced Vitya is, it's no wonder why he's so overprotective if this is a constant!"

 

Lilia, face still screwed up irritably, visibly forces herself to calm. Still, she shoots Victor a sour look.

 

"She described him as a bell to me," Lilia says, brisk. "Quiet and meek if tapped and prodded at, but will ring proud and true if given equal strength. Looking at his performances, I believe the same. He was strong as a Junior, with Minako's influence. He grew weak under Cialdini's simply because his methods would not work. He grew strong again under Victor. She wishes for him to maintain that strength and become even more."

 

She turns to Victor, scowling again. "I am interfering, Victor, because you have proven you have the same soft, bleeding heart as Tolya. As it stands, you are well on your way to making the same mistake he did. I don't think I need to tell you how that will end for you."

 

With that, she stands up and marches out of Yakov's office. Victor remains stoic even as Yakov himself winces as she just barely avoids slamming the door behind her. Rather than acknowledge it, Victor opens his book again and tries to continue where he'd left off.

 

He still has time before he'll be allowed back into his apartment again anyway. He wonders if the lighter atmosphere will be more beneficial to Yuuri than any strict discipline Lilia's used. Hopes for it, if he's going to be honest. Yuuri tends to improve more one-on-one, but that's always seemed more linked to how comfortable he feels in his surroundings than anything. Victor _is_ being sensible when it comes to Yuuri, because of course Yuuri deserves that respect. That Lilia and Yakov think he's being overprotective--

 

"Vitya." He pauses, but doesn't look up. Yakov sighs, the sound heavy. "If I let you on the ice for the next hour, will you actually calm down?"

 

Victor chances a glance up. "And fall behind on my studies?"

 

"The last thing we need is you and Katsuki in a stressed feedback loop," Yakov huffs. "Drills. I'm testing you and you need to be able to answer. Any attempt at a level three or higher I'm counting as 'I don't know' and marking wrong."

 

Though he lets his expression waver in indecision, Victor's already made up his mind. He and Yuuri aren't that different, when it comes down to it.

 

* * *

 

 

When Victor pushes open his door, already grabbing at his scarf to pull off, he finds that the stacks of boxes in the living room have indeed been taken care of and sit collapsed against the wall. He hears Yuri snapping at someone in the kitchen, the whole apartment smelling of warm bread and something spicy and aromatic. He sees Georgi shelving books through the doorway to his study. Mila is in there with him, draped over the couch, legs over the back as she flips through a magazine, one of the few boxes still left open next to her with a stack of similar magazines.

 

"Yura kicked us out of the kitchen," she explains, glancing up at him. "I wasn't that bossy when I was fifteen."

 

"So you're in here instead?" he asks. She shrugs.

 

Maccachin is, apparently, either maintaining peace in his kitchen between the two Yuris or on the lookout for scraps and therefore too preoccupied to come and greet him. Victor ponders his luck, finding the one person to share his life with that his dog seems to like more than him. He thinks briefly of what Yuuri himself has lost, the obvious-in-hindsight reason he'd beelined for the refreshments table at Sochi. How Maccachin seemed to realize both that Yuuri was the one who made Victor so excited and that he was still grieving. How Maccachin's protectiveness had finally given Victor his answer about both that night and why Yuuri was so reluctant to ever bring it up -- barring the later reveal that Yuuri didn't even remember.

 

Seems fair enough.

 

Georgi clears his throat. "It seems that our Yura decided to teach your Yura how to bake when he said he never really learned. We were invited in too, at first, but he's..." He grimaces.

 

"His temper's worse in the kitchen than it is at practice," Mila snorts. "Georgi's only been called in to help get things from the top shelf and my part was done with the kneading."

 

Victor pauses, trying to decide which part of that to address first. "Yura bakes?"

 

Mila beams, righting herself on the couch. "I know, right? I didn't know either! Apparently, his family runs a bakery and that's why Yura always seemed to have pirozhki with him in Moscow. Imagine that, huh?"

 

Well. That would explain how an old man apparently had the skill necessary to custom make an entire batch so Yuri had enough to share, should he choose to. Though Victor still doesn't fully understand how that topic even came up. Yuri won't admit to anything that makes him seem half as guileless as his public image leans towards. "Should I assume that Yuuri hasn't been kicked out because Yura considers him competent enough? Or is it just because even he's not rude enough to kick someone out of their own kitchen?"

 

"Oh, your Yura's perfectly capable of defending himself against a kitten throwing a hissy fit. He gets so sassy!" Mila sets aside the magazine and stands, stretching. "You had a lot of fun with him in Japan, didn't you? No wonder you didn't want to come back."

 

Victor allows himself a smile. It hasn't even been a full two weeks and he finds he already misses Hasetsu, if only for how much more laid-back it is. Even at their busiest, there had always been time for others in their schedule and the fondness the town had for Yuuri was palpable, even if their greatest exposure to him was through his family's onsen and not his career. Still, it's good to hear that for a rocky enough start, Yuuri seems to be settling in just fine.

 

Georgi sighs, picking up the box of magazines Mila had been picking through and setting it down closer to the shelves. "I have to say, though, Vitya, I don't really understand you. No one would have blamed you for retiring. And your Yura, he's at a respectable age for that, too. Would it have been so bad?"

 

"Look at how much he improved in the months we worked together," Victor says. He runs a finger over the spines on his bookshelves. "He's twenty four and he's barely hit his stride. Why would I hold him back?"

 

Mila snorts as she tucks the magazine into the box with the rest and gathers it up again, apparently not liking that spot for the collection. "However you handle it, stop letting Lilia Stepanovna teach him Russian. He's starting to sound like an old lady and it's kind of funny, but it won't do him any favors later."

 

Victor sighs. "I've already spoken with her earlier. Hopefully, she'll listen."

 

As Mila buries herself in the box of magazines again, Georgi waits and glances at Victor out of the corner of his eye. "Vitya?"

 

"Yes, Zhora?"

 

He says nothing at first. Then, as casually and subtly as he can, he pulls out the still-unopened letter from the tops of a row of old encyclopedias. "I put it up before Mila or our little Yura could see it, but... that's Uncle Tolya's handwriting, isn't it?"

 

Ah. Victor shouldn't have let Georgi in with the others, come to think of it. He knows too much compared to them. "It is."

 

Georgi chances a glance towards Mila, then out the door to the study. Out in the direction of the kitchen, Victor hears garbled nonsense in Yuri's voice and the sound of running water. "He left something for you? After all these years of silence?"

 

Victor huffs. "In his defense, it's hard to talk to someone when you've been dead for most of them." And with a begrudging shrug and a too-sharp flash of teeth, Victor adds, "Apparently, it's a housewarming gift. One that's been a long time coming, according to my grandmother."

 

Georgi winces. "So you did see her. I wondered, since she's been... notably absent from the rink."

 

"As I told Yakov, we came to an agreement," Victor says. "We should be fine until the end of the season, when there's more time to fuss with her. She's too much of a distraction right now for everyone."

 

The reluctant, half-hearted shrug Georgi does makes a better summary of the whole affair than Victor would care to admit. Victor slides the letter towards the back of the shelf, out of sight for now to deal with at some later point. He'll properly set it aside somewhere safer after the others have left.

 

"I'm going to go check the state of my kitchen," he says, louder for Mila's sake, and the girl snorts.

 

"Good luck!" she sing-songs back. "Yura's very protective of it right now. I got yelled at for stealing half the orange he was using!"

 

Georgi scoffs. "You also stole some nuts. And you wonder why he doesn't want anyone else in there right now?"

 

Mila blinks too innocently, a smile twitching on her lips. "A little snack never hurt anyone. He was only using the peel anyway, so why would he care? That's a waste of an orange."

 

"You don't know what he was planning on doing with it, though." The distant look in Georgi's eyes speaks of an argument that Victor probably should be grateful to have missed, given Yuri's temper. "And now, we'll never know."

 

"So _dramatic_ , you boys!"

 

Taking the opening he's been given, Victor makes his way back out to the main room, dodging Mila and the box of magazines she's apparently decided to keep by the door in lieu of setting up in a shelf. She pokes her tongue out at him, eyes crinkling when he stops and turns towards her with a raised eyebrow. To be fair, most of the collection is in Japanese, so it is likely that she simply has no idea how to sort them and wants to leave it up to him and Yuuri, no matter how curious she was that she couldn't resist flipping through on her own.

 

"You know, Victor," Georgi says; from his tone, he means less the shenanigans going on in his kitchen and more their discussion moments ago. "For what it's worth, I do think he'd be happy for you."

 

The worst part is that Victor, despite everything, almost wants to believe him.

 

* * *

 

The smell that's been permeating the apartment is, as expected, stronger in the kitchen. Victor peers in, curious about what goes on when he's not around; it helps that Maccachin, torn as he is between greeting Victor and the potential for dropped scraps, merely whimpers at the sight of him and wriggles in place, but stays where he is behind the two Yuris.

 

"Does that dog ever shut up?" Yuri asks irritably as he scrubs hard at something over the sink. "He's been whining for like five minutes and I know damn well he ate!"

 

Yuuri doesn't turn and keeps his attention on the pot on the stove. "He's just hoping for treats."

 

"Well, make him go _away_. It's getting annoying having him around!"

 

"At least he stays off the counters." And at that, Yuuri turns and gives Yuri a long look, making the boy flush. Well, Victor clearly missed something entertaining earlier then.

 

"Then why don't you have a fucking stool in here or something?" Yuri demands, prickling with obvious embarrassment. "It's not like Victor cooks a lot, or he'd have that shit down where it's easy to get!"

 

Yuuri hums. "But Yurio, how often are we really going to be baking? It's so much work and time. I think I'm more surprised you actually went and _bought_ us flour."

 

"Make fucking noodles then, I don't care," Yuri says. "There isn't even proofing or rises for that shit. Just knead it together, roll it out and cut it, toss in boiling water. It's so fucking simple!"

 

Yuuri stills in poking at whatever's in the pot and turns slightly, giving Yuri an incredulous look. "How in the world do you make cooking from scratch sound so _easy_?"

 

Yuri throws his hands up, brandishing a soapy sponge and... a whisk? Victor has one of those? "How the fuck do all of you feed yourselves without restaurants around?! Victor keeps the important shit up where it's hard to get, _you_ apparently never learned how to fucking bake, Mila thinks all it takes is tossing shit together and hoping it works out, and Georgi somehow got it in his head that a fucking _steak knife_ is good enough to chop up vegetables with!"

 

Yuuri's face twitches like he wants to make a face -- in agreement or not, it's hard to decipher. "To be fair, a kitchen knife does look pretty intimidating..."

 

"We're _figure skaters_! Why the fuck would any of us not know how to handle a sharp object?!"

 

Well, this is certainly a side of Yuri Victor thinks he's never seen before. He's known the boy to have surprisingly hearty meals the rare times he brings anything to eat at the center, but they'd all assumed that since he'd been living in an apartment close by that one of the older folk he shared the building with had taken him under their wing and plied him with food -- and that was before Lilia apparently decided to take him in herself, and a woman like her would certainly have her own preferences. The realization that all these years, Yuri must have made those meals himself is interesting. No wonder his family doesn't seem to worry too much about how he's taking care of himself despite living hours away from home.

 

Victor waits until he sees Yuri set his hands down back into the sink before fully stepping into the kitchen and slinking forward. Maccachin whines again, turning large limpid eyes towards him. He presses a finger to his lips, smiling. Maccachin huffs quietly in response, wriggling in place again.

 

He's careful to stay quiet as he pads across the kitchen floor and behind Yuuri, but even so he must've given himself away at least a little because Yuuri lifts his head. Well, no point in maintaining secrecy. May as well go for it.

 

"Yurio, did someone--" and Yuuri cuts himself off with a squawk as Victor slips his thumbs through Yuuri's belt loops and leans over his shoulder, peering into the bubbling pot of aromatic yellow... something. Yuri nearly jumps half a meter off the ground by his place at the sink at the sound and Maccachin barks. "Victor! When did you get home?!"

 

"A few minutes ago," Victor admits with a cheeky smile. Yuuri gives him an exasperated look and Victor presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "What's all this? All I got out of Mila and Georgi was that they've been banned from helping too much."

 

Something wet hits Victor's shoulder. He blinks and looks down at the soapy sponge on the floor next to his foot.

 

"Fucking _hell_ , Victor," Yuri hisses, bristling and prickly. "What are you, a leech? Get out of here before the damn pig burns something!"

 

Victor laughs. "Yurio, are you really trying to ban me from my own kitchen?"

 

The phone left on the other side of the oven beeps and Yuri bites back a swear as he yanks off the hand towel to dry his hands and stomps away, grabbing a pair of gloves Victor doesn't particularly remember owning and shoving his hands in them before cracking open the oven door and then reaching up to turn off the oven.

 

"I think we should let him fight with that for a little bit," Yuuri says lowly. Victor glances back to take in the way Yuuri's raised a single brow, lips pressed thin and quivering as he tries very hard to look more annoyed. "But you know, you really startled us. You should apologize."

 

"Did I now?" Victor hums. His fingers curl around Yuuri's hipbones. "I don't suppose you have ideas how I should go about that?"

 

A clattering sound interrupts them. They look up to stare at Yuri, who has his hands spread in the air and a pan of bread rolls in front of him on the counter, scowling darkly.

 

"Oops," he says flatly. "Clumsy me. Maybe the old man should leave before I accidentally drop the next one on his foot."

 

"Yurio!" The teenager turns back to the open oven with a huff. Yuuri glances back up to Victor sheepishly. "I'm sorry. He, ah. Really likes this kitchen, apparently."

 

What Yuri probably _actually_ likes is the freedom to do what he wants, really. Victor doubts that Lilia and Yakov give him much leeway for keeping these skills polished, as well, even if Yuri's age and subsequent high activity level and metabolism mean that he can eat like a horse with few repercussions.

 

Still, Victor is curious, and he leans over Yuuri's shoulder for another look at the pot he's been tending to. "What are you making? I noticed the smell coming in."

 

Yuuri blinks down at the pot. "Oh. Phichit apparently checked the forecast here and said he didn't want an icicle for a best friend, so he sent curry paste." He looks up, grimacing slightly. "It's going to be strange eating curry with bread, though..."

 

Another tray clanks to the counter. Yuri grumbles, "You'll live," as he picks the small cookies off the tray onto a different one. Yuri notices Victor's line of sight and scowls. "Don't you dare. Mila's already fucked with my measurements enough."

 

"I have to say," Victor remarks instead, a grin creeping on his face. "When you threatened to ransack my kitchen, I was expecting to find _less_ food, not more."

 

Yuri makes a face. "What the hell _could_ I take? More stupid-ass protein bars? I have more than enough of that shit than I know what to do with."

 

Victor feels Yuuri's shoulders shake. "Teenagers are really something, aren't they?"

 

"Watch it, Katsudon," Yuri snaps back. "You're starting to sound like the old man here!"

 

Victor knows it's a bad idea even as he considers it, especially as he acknowledges that it wasn't often he had chances like this dropped in his hands so readily and it'd be a waste to let it go.

 

He leans in, pressing even closer against Yuuri as he shifts his hands free of his belt loops and instead wraps his arms around Yuuri's middle. Lidding his eyes and dropping his voice, he murmurs loud enough for Yuri to just barely hear, "I'd actually say we're firmly in our prime! Don't you think, my Yuuri?"

 

The boy's bright red face is worth the cookie crumbs that cling to his hair, and it does say something about Yuri's baking skills that the cookie in question crumbles apart so easily on contact. Maccachin certainly enjoys the treat.

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner goes smoothly, despite the fussing and the teasing. The bread rolls are soft and light, praise Yuri takes and locks away for safekeeping from the looks of him, despite his own complaints that they're mediocre at best for lack of a proper rise. The curry burns pleasantly and settles comfortably, though his phone pings with notifications from Instagram that more or less are Phichit brightly mocking the use of the rolls and Yuri's immediate defense of them. Last Victor checked, judging by Yuri's scowl and frantic typing and the way Yuuri takes one glance at his own phone before turning it off and picking up the dishes to soak before washing, he's assuming that there's going to be quite a few entertaining articles featuring their bickering by sunrise tomorrow.

 

"Can you _believe_ that asshole's saying that if it has to be bread, it should be flatbread?!" Yuri snarls between bites of his meal. "How the fuck are you supposed to soak up the sauce that way?"

 

"Yurio," Yuuri finally interrupts, sighing in disbelief. "Are you really going to argue with someone from Thailand on how to eat _curry_?"

 

"No, no," Mila laughs. "Let him. Let's see how deep he digs himself!"

 

[ _sending @katsu-yu these in next care package for @yuri-plisetsky!_ ] is Phichit's latest response, accompanied with a grinning emoticon and a picture of orange plastic chopsticks, joined at the blunt ends with a cartoon tiger staring innocently up at the camera. It's very cute, and other than being a little childish it very much fits Yuri's tastes.

 

"Don't fucking _like it_ , Victor!" Yuri snaps at him. Victor grins wider. He gets the feeling Yuri's never going to learn how to use chopsticks properly now out of spite.

 

Everyone starts to trickle out after tea and some of the cookies Yuri made, a bag of about half a dozen each being shoved into Mila and Georgi's hands before they head out the door. Mila's neighbors, as much as she complains about them, will fuss more if she doesn't come home on time, and Georgi doesn't care to intrude any longer than he already has, given their brief talk earlier. Of what remains of the cookies, Yuri takes a full dozen himself, citing that if he at least shows back up at Lilia's home with them in hand she'll be less annoyed about his late arrival. She'll undoubtedly confiscate them to dole out appropriately, but between her, Yuri, and Yakov they'll be split evenly.

 

Either way, it leaves the rest of the night for Victor to spend doting on Yuuri like he's wanted to for hours. As soon as the door closes behind Yuri, Victor turns the bolt and herds Yuuri towards the bathroom.

 

"Victor, I'm fine," he tries to insist, flushing, but Victor isn't having it.

 

"You unpacked nearly everything with their help, and then made sure Yurio didn't take complete control of our kitchen while cooking dinner," Victor says, perfectly reasonable. "Go and rest. Soak a little. You're not the only one with friends who like to spoil them sometimes."

 

It takes Yuuri a moment, but it clicks with a groan. "Should we really trust anything Chris sends?"

 

"He swears by those bath salts and a glass of red to unwind," Victor assures him, smiling. "It's no natural hot spring, but not everyone is so fortunate to have unlimited access like we used to."

 

Yuuri glances aside, a crinkle in his brow. "What about you? You've been spending hours at the center, practicing and studying on top of helping me. If anyone deserves it..."

 

Victor raises an eyebrow at him. "Yuu~ri," he pouts. "I feel like we've talked about this before."

 

"We did," Yuuri admits. Still, he presses on, "but back then, you were only coaching me, and we weren't what we are now. I can't just keep taking from you."

 

"How about this, then," Victor says, running a thumb over Yuuri's cheekbone. "I will clean up. You set up the bath so it's perfect."

 

Yuuri frowns. "Victor--!"

 

Victor presses a fingertip to Yuuri's lips. "For both of us, darling," he clarifies, smiling smugly. Yuuri stares, slowly turning pink.

 

"...Your tub isn't that big," he manages to get out. Victor nearly laughs, amused at how that seems to be Yuuri's biggest concern at the moment.

 

"We'll make it work, I promise." He kisses the tip of Yuuri's nose quick, looking at Yuuri impishly through his lashes. "Go on now. Impress me!"

 

Yuuri groans something that sounds a little like 'unfair', but the stubborn stiffness of his shoulders sloughs off and he steps away to go shuffle towards the bathroom. Victor watches him with an amused smile. Yuuri is a lot of things, but a quitter, ultimately, isn't one of them.

 

So while Yuuri is busy and refocused on trying to figure out the logistics of getting both of them in the bath -- it's just a cheap excuse to cuddle and Victor isn't even going to try denying that, but Yuuri does often find... creative solutions to minimize accidentally bumping into each other, so he's curious to see how this will go -- he gets to work on the pile of dishes left in and around the sink. The pots, baking trays, and other cookware, Victor more or less does a cursory rinse and lets the dishwater take care of the rest. The plates, cups, and silverware are handled with the sponge.

 

Maccachin pops in briefly, a rope toy hanging from his mouth, but upon seeing Victor without any treats he huffs and continues on his way towards the study. Victor dries his hands so he can follow him, at least to see if he needs to head out one more time before bed.

 

He watches as Maccachin instead lifts himself onto the couch, scratching at a pillow before turning and settling in place to gnaw at the knot in his toy. Victor smiles, and closes the gap to reach over the back and scratch at Maccachin's ears.

 

"You need some quiet time too, don't you?" he murmurs, voice soft. "It's been a long time since we had guests over like tonight. Usually it's just Chris when he's in town, or Babulya."

 

Who, as a woman of her word, really shouldn't be bothering him until he reaches out to her first. And Victor knows all too well what the first thing that will come out of her mouth when he inevitably does, because sooner or later they'll cross paths courtesy of her continued (if equally reluctant) partnership with Yakov in regards to music: she'll ask, curt and annoyed because she hates to be kept waiting, "Well? Did you read it?"

 

Victor doesn't want to prove her accusations of being a pigheaded spoiled brat right, but at the same time he's extremely reluctant to pull down the letter from his father and get it over with.

 

No. As much as he wants to, he'd promised himself long before his grandmother that if anything changed regarding his father, Victor would accept it on his own terms. He doesn't care what's in the letter, not like he would have years ago. If he opened it now, it would only be because he's tired and annoyed, not because he actually feels like listening. As much as he and his father disagreed on certain important things, this was not one of those matters.

 

It's partially _why_ they never got around to reconciling, after all.

 

The crux of the issue is that Victor already knows: what went wrong, the things that needed to be said to make amends, everything. Victor had been too proud, high on his successes and the prestige that came with them because it showed that people loved watching Victor doing what he loved best, the artist's blood in his veins singing in unadulterated delight. Victor hadn't truly known humility until he'd knocked himself off his own pedestal, hurting himself through exhaustion just like he'd been warned too many times all through his life. By the point the world Victor had sacrificed so much for had lost its spark and glamor, Victor was twenty six and had nothing left but what he'd created for himself. It would be long, lonely months before Yuuri came into his life, skirting along the edges of Victor's awareness until he was thrown, demanding, in Victor's face. Twice.

 

Victor enjoys subtlety as much as any star performer worth their honors, but even he can't ignore someone who won't leave him alone.

 

This is why forgiveness was too hard for them; in this, they were the same. Victor, with his stung pride, refused to be the one to cave and crawl back home. His father, normally a kind and soft-spoken man, stood stony and silent and refusing to budge on this one issue that ultimately divided them.

 

Victor loves his father and he knows his father loved him -- even now, even after all these years of unresolved tension that are forever wasted and that's why it still makes him so _mad_ \-- but what he remembers most about his father is his bone-deep, bleeding-heart grief for a woman dead before Victor could even know her face without a photograph. A woman who Victor could never understand how or why she had so much power over his father for so many long years after her death.

 

 _Stay Close to Me_ had been Victor's attempt at empathizing. Far too many years late, but better to try and understand his father's scarred heart in a way that Victor himself could relate to than continuing to let himself wallow in ennui and regret he'd refuse to admit. There's a certain irony, looking back over the past year, to see just how _much_ he'd come to empathize.

 

Victor's ring gleams in the lamplight, standing out against the muted chocolate-brown of Maccachin's coat and the dark green cushions of his couch. The sharp, bitter culmination of the fight he'd had with his grandmother lingers again in his memory, sour and unpleasant along with the knowledge that Lilia's been forcibly and unnecessarily strict with Yuuri in a manner that might be another consequence of it.

 

("I was told to give my Tolenka's last words to his son," his grandmother had spat at him in the house where Victor had grown up, where his father had grown up before him, where their family's workshop and history still resided, "when he came home, and unfortunately for him he's only just stopped by. I apparently was mistaken, if he's still willing to kill himself in favor of taking care of his _fiancé_."

 

"Is your vision going bad, too?" Victor had snapped at her in return. "Because I am clearly sitting right here, not for the first time, and only now have you bothered to do anything about it."

 

And his grandmother had looked at him, eyes hard, and said, "I don't entertain ghosts, not even for my son's sake.")

 

From the other end of the apartment, Victor hears Yuuri call for him. Victor sighs, weary and longing for the warmth and contact with his darling, sweet Yuuri, rubbing Maccachin's ears one last time before straightening and striding out of the study.

 

He won't open the letter -- not until the season's over, just as he's said. It's waited all these years for him, it can certainly wait another few months. He already knows what it's going to say.

 

His father is nothing, if not predictable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> \- Yuri's cookies are pretty much snowballs/Mexican Wedding Cookies/"Russian" teacakes (so many names) flavored with orange zest by the way. The rolls he makes are quick yeast rolls that take like an hour's rise tops.  
> \- Thai-styled curry paste is basically nothing but herbs and spices ground together, unlike Japanese- and Korean-style curry (which most of us are a little more familiar with) which uses a roux. As a result, it tends to be more... soupy.  
> \- Phichit's little troll-gift is [this thing](http://asianwonders.net/products/tiger-training-chopstickers) by the way, and brought to you by all the official arts we've been getting of Yuri absolutely failing at using chopsticks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I never said I had a concrete update schedule for this. In my defense.
> 
> (I rewrote this three times. THREE TIMES.)

On the one hand, St. Petersburg isn't like Detroit at all.

 

Even if traffic can be as bad and occasionally worse (thank goodness that Victor's apartment is only a little over two and a half kilometers away from the sports center, though the obvious affluence of the area is a little… much sometimes) and it still gives him minor heart attacks to look up and _not_ recognize his surroundings, the atmosphere is just this side of noticeably different. It's… well, maybe not warmer, per se, but people double-take in the street when he passes and Yuuri's not sure if it's because he's obviously foreign or if people actually recognize him due to a greater overall interest in figure skating. Though to be fair, he's usually out with Victor and sometimes Yuri, so maybe it's really them they're stopping and staring at. That's always a possibility, too.

 

Then there's the crowd of faces growing a little more familiar by the day that's absolutely nothing like what he experienced in Detroit. In Detroit, because he'd been so close to the university and even lived in an apartment building that was technically part of its campus, most of the people he saw on a day-to-day basis were others his age, usually some degree of stressed and exhausted and barely spared second glances at Yuuri when he'd stumble into the favored local coffeehouse or when his nerves were too tightly strung and he had to go wear them down. Not that he didn't get stared at occasionally, or that he was always left to his own devices. Even before Phichit signed on and Celestino put the two of them together since Yuuri had two years of experience on him, the gym tended to be a den of egos who'd shoot him sly grins and dark looks that made his skin prickle and keep his head low. He didn't even want to get into how the hockey team insisted on playing with all the skaters like a pod of orcas, looking for any moment of weakness…

 

Here, though, most of the faces he regularly sees are either considerably older or considerably _younger_ , and their lifestyles reflect that change. The doorman (which makes sense, considering the area, but…) seems to at least be used to Victor's odd hours even after nearly a year without seeing the man on a regular basis, so they don't seem to judge Yuuri too much for trudging in and through the lobby with his practice gear. The neighbors across the hall, though -- a couple about Yuuri's parents' age, professionals close to retirement -- seem to have their own opinions based on the way they keep peering out every time they hear movement in the hall and immediately start trying to quietly gossip. Victor doesn't pay attention to them, which from what Yuuri's gleaned off his overall behavior can mean either they're completely harmless or they're being rude enough that ignoring them is the polite thing to do. There's a gaggle of Juniors and Novices who usually trail after Mila and Yuri that also peer around corners at him with the same bewildered curiosity that Axel, Lutz, and Loop did when he first returned to Hasetsu last March, only Yuuri understands them significantly less.

 

This doesn't even include all the old folk who sit and wait for the bus at the station he and Victor pass to and from the center, or even when they have the time to go out and grab groceries. There's a specific grisly-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a long, gnarled scar over his cheekbone and up across his temple who squints at them out of his good eye every Sunday afternoon. Yuuri mostly remembers him because he has the habit of telling them in gruff tones what vegetables he's brought out to market before repeating it in stilted English. Victor seems to like him. Yuuri is a little skeptical, but aside from looking a little scary the man's been harmless.

 

And yet, on the other hand--

 

"Warm up," Lilia says, one of the few phrases he's learned very quickly. It helps that he's heard Yakov snap it, too, though less… stiff and more loud. Yuuri does as he's asked. Life is simpler that way.

 

Lilia's words are as sharp as her cheekbones as she has Yuuri run through drills -- or at least that's what Yuuri assumes, because unlike everyone else she doesn't bother trying to enunciate or slow down her speech. She speaks crisp and fast-paced and she expects Yuuri to follow, even if he ends up staring at her more than a little lost half the time. By the time he's pieced together what she started with, she's already either switched topics or is waiting impatiently for a response.

 

He doesn't really _expect_ English from her, though, because even in Detroit he'd had no one who spoke Japanese for his sake. The only native speaker he knew was the Japanese teacher for the Asian Studies program at the university, a grandmother of five who touched up her grays and whose eyes twinkled in amusement every time someone flirted with her thinking she was twenty-ish years younger than she really was. She liked to tease how Yuuri's Saga-ben added a twang to his Standard that he uses for interviews. He'd gently remind her that a Nagoya-ben lilt didn't help her students' pronunciation either. Either way, she'd send her students in need of extra help towards him and made sure he got compensated for his time. It helped with bills.

 

So Yuuri puts up with Lilia's strict nature, accepts that he's just not going to understand most of what she says because she refuses to give him special treatment and make things easier for him. Whatever. It's fine. Ballet is ballet, different disciplines aside, and though he's far from Minako's studio or any of the instructors' he'd had in Detroit, it's not the hardest thing in the world to figure out from context. It's certainly easier than fighting with his phone to make sure he's saying things the way he's supposed to, even pronouncing it right.

 

Does it matter if he sounds stiff and awkward to his own ears? Does it matter that he hears how light everything sounds from _everyone else_ when he's still struggling to get the intonation and the grammar right? _Sentence structures_ , oh god. Why does it change depending on whether you're asking a question or talking about something that's already happened? Why can't there be _consistency_?

 

This is Detroit all over again and it's _driving Yuuri crazy_.

 

But -- and that's the kicker, isn't it? -- Yuuri did handle Detroit on his own eventually. It took a year and change of constant struggling and being very grateful he'd chosen to stick to a Japanese university after all instead of going for the full overseas experience, but he'd… managed. And at least there _was_ a common language here, even if Lilia doesn't use it for him. That's better than what he's had before. To ask for more would be greedy.

 

"Stop!" Ah, yes. Another word Yuuri knows.

 

He looks up from his arabesque croissé as Lilia eyes him, frowning. He lets himself drop from it to face her properly.

 

"You are wooden," she says curtly. She could mean stiff. It's basically the same thing in dance anyway. "Why?"

 

The answer to that is relatively simple, though trying to gather the words to say it aloud is a different matter entirely. It seems unfair, that Yuuri's dealt with this for weeks now and still barely manages to string together a sentence without pausing and backtracking to try and fix his mistakes. Lilia doesn't seem to appreciate it, either. Probably because it takes more of her time.

 

"I…" Okay, it's simple. Easy. Yuuri knows his words here. Just… use them. "I worry. For Victor. He is busy every day, and is very tired when he comes home. I want to help more."

 

Lilia raises a fine eyebrow at him, none too impressed. Then again, Yuuri would think it'd take more than his shoddy attempts at Russian to impress her anyway.

 

"Victor is not important," she says, and Yuuri feels his jaw tighten as he struggles not to let his annoyance show. "Focus on yourself for now."

 

And that seems to be the end of Lilia's moment of sympathy for him. Yuuri manages a curt affirmative as he returns to his previous position.

 

To be fair to her, Lilia isn't _as_ bad as she'd been when she started their dual lessons. He suspects Victor had a hand in it, but Yuri's been making his own fuss the moment she's out of earshot, too -- which is understandable, given they'd both been in a part of Japan where English isn't as common and had been just as reliant on Yuuri, Yuuko, and Minako as their main translators. Returning the favor seems more Yuri's style anyway. Yuuri can understand not wanting to leave a debt unpaid. Still, just because Victor always seems to thrive under pressure…

 

No. This is silly. Yuuri knows how this works. Letting his concerns distract him will affect his performance and that will only add to Victor's workload; that's the last thing Yuuri wants. Europeans is too close, less than a week away. The competition could make or break Victor's proper comeback into the season, and Yuuri refuses to be more distraction than he already is. He needs to wait. After that, Victor will have more time for Yuuri to focus on the final stretch before the Four Continents, and then they can mutually work side-by-side to finish polishing up for Worlds. Yuuri can certainly stick it out for that little bit longer. And then…

 

Well. Yuuri doesn't really know. He's not used to taking things as they come. This is a rare time his life is a little less stressful that way.

 

He lets his mind wander instead to other, more trivial things. He tries to remember how much milk they have left. That leads to wondering how he's going to maintain his diet, but if he managed it in Detroit with all the burger joints and fast food places (and that one wholesale store around the corner from the rink that sold food only in _large_ , even for individual sale in their food court) he can work around all the excess dairy and oil. Or, uh, at least train harder. Whichever is easier in the long run. Speaking of which, they have those turnip greens from the grisly old man they'd bought yesterday, right? Maybe he can try something with those.

 

"Fadya!" he hears Lilia snap and follow it with a string of sharp scolding.

 

He blinks at the reflection in the mirror showing a group of children scrambling in a scatter back into the hall. He chances a look to Lilia, who is shaking her head at the now-empty doorframe with a huff.

 

"Pay them no mind," she grumbles. "Mostly Novices curious about you. One is a child who should not be here. Stubborn boy, that one. Not as bad as Victor, though." Her lips purse, eyes going dark. "No one will ever be as bad as Victor."

 

Distantly, Yuuri wonders why so many of the old Russian women he's encountered are so judgmental of Victor despite his popularity. He also wonders if Minako's ever said anything along those lines about him to her newest generation of students.

 

Honestly, though? Some things, he knows, people are just better off not knowing.

 

* * *

 

 

The incident with the Novices spying on him aside, Yuuri has been mostly left to his own devices this week for obvious reasons.

 

He tries to stay away from the rink itself while Yakov and his skaters are inside practicing, finding other ways to keep busy and focused. The language app on his phone becomes his primary source of busywork when he isn't training. Yuuri knows all too well how to make himself invisible to avoid conflict, after all, and he has seen the furrow in Yuri's brow, the tense line in Georgi's jaw, Mila's thinned lips, and the way Victor waits until they're at his apartment to slump into Yuuri's lap like a ragdoll. The latter gets a little smothering, since Maccachin takes it as an invitation to jump up and join them, too. It seems to help Victor recharge just a little bit, though, so Yuuri doesn't complain too much.

 

Still, Yuuri isn't very good at staying strong in the face of temptation. He definitely doesn't want to end up distracting anyone -- especially Victor, considering how much more he needs to do -- but how can Yuuri possibly resist watching Victor in his element, in the world Yuuri once stole him from? He figures as long as he keeps quiet and avoids drawing attention to himself, the others should be fine. It's not like Yuuri's doing anything that could be a noteworthy distraction for any of them, anyway.

 

Yakov, much like he had during the practice sessions at Rostelecom, barely spares him a glance as Yuuri settles himself in on the bench. He's too busy nitpicking at his own skaters' programs, ensuring they're of even higher precision and artistry than they were at Nationals and at the Grand Prix circuit, as well as the small handful of ice shows for the few who participate in those. Mila and Georgi nod at him as he passes them, leaning against the boards with Victor and Yuri both on the ice.

 

"Hi," Mila chirps in greeting. "Done with dance training for today?"

 

Yuuri hesitates before nodding. "Unless there's something else she thinks of, I think so."

 

Mila nods. "So she's out of busy work to keep you and Victor from distracting each other, then."

 

"…I suppose?"

 

He tries not to wince as he says that. It's about what he and Victor suspected would be the case, but the reality of it is still not the best thing to be faced with. Just to catch up with everyone else, Victor's had to put in so many extra hours of practice. This is on top of the extra work he's putting in to make sure he's the best coach possible for Yuuri, on top of ensuring Yuuri's transition into a culture equal parts strange and familiar to what he's already experienced. He knows Victor is certain he can handle it and Yuuri believes him, but he still can't help but wonder how the rest of this season will pan out for them.

 

As far as the rest of the world's concerned, Victor's at a major disadvantage for more reasons than one. He's in the twilight years of his career. He's coming in after half the season's already over. He's not focused entirely on his programs alone, because he's still coaching Yuuri on top of all this. Already there are skeptics weighing in that this might be the year Victor is completely usurped from his throne, some arguing that it's hardly a fair match to begin with.

 

If Yuuri were a different sort of person, he might have agreed with them, might've felt guilt eat away at him in the worst ways at the unspoken blame being dropped on his shoulders. The Yuuri of a year ago definitely would've fallen into that trap, as miserable as he'd been even if he'd had reasons for it.

 

The Yuuri of now, though, sees that Victor's only suffered in the finesse of his technical aspects from lack of dedicated practice. His performance aspects are as high as they've ever been, if not higher and more refined. It's obvious, looking back now, that Victor was losing steam and sight of who he was. Yuuri's responsible for this new Victor. That, more than anything, is bewildering enough to sit back and watch as the Victor he'd first seen years ago seemed to again take the reins… and drive a good number of people up the wall in the process, apparently, but Victor isn't someone who can be so easily controlled.

 

Mila makes a considering noise. "How does that work, anyway? Does he just share the ice with you so he can get his own practice in, or does he just start nagging you during his breaks?"

 

"Well," Yuuri starts, still mostly focused on watching Victor run through the more complicated elements of both his programs, "he is more hands-on than any coach I've had before."

 

Mila snorts. Yuuri glances at her, confused, but she waves it off with a barely hidden grin. "Nothing, nothing! Of course Vitya's more hands-on. I don't know why I expected otherwise."

 

"Obviously," Georgi drawls, a smile creeping into his voice. "Vitya's a _professional_ , after all."

 

Whatever it is about that statement, it makes Mila burst into giggles and slap a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking and eyes scrunched. Yuuri blinks, even more confused than before.

 

"It's nothing," Georgi explains when Mila attempts to speak but keeps giggling instead. "A bit of an inside joke from last year, that's all. Victor's come a long way since then, but it's still good to have something to knock him down a few pegs after all these years."

 

"But Victor's always been professional?" Yuuri says, bewildered. Sure, Victor flirts a lot, but when they're training it's at a minimum and usually only when Yuuri's working on _Eros_ , which… you know. Makes sense then. "He's unconventional and he's far from a model coach, yes, but that's how he is. I wouldn't want him any other way."

 

He's not quite sure what he said to make Mila and Georgi blink and glance at each other like that, but the moment passes as Mila leans forward, all too familiar mischief in her eyes. Yuuri would really like to know what it is about him that makes Russians want to pick on him so much, even if they are being affectionate about it in their own ways.

 

"Oh, Yuka," she sighs, smiling. "You have _no_ idea how Vitya was before he hopped on the first flight to Japan for you."

 

Georgi laughs, "The way he's practicing now is nothing. If only you could have seen him with _Stay Close to Me_ last year. You'd have never seen such a beautiful love song skated with so much annoyance."

 

Yuuri blinks as Mila's grin sharpens. "Ah, yes. This was before that Chris guy finally talked him down, wasn't it? Imagine that." She glances back to the ice where Victor is tightening the flow and angle of a layback spin that makes Yuuri's cheeks flush pink if he looks a little too closely to try and figure out why it looks so familiar. "He's so stubborn. Most people don't take four months to figure out that sort of thing, you know."

 

"And the rest of us had to suffer for it," Georgi adds with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eye. Mila laughs.

 

...Yuuri's missing something, isn't he?

 

He doesn't get an answer, or at least not much of one. Yuri slides over, hair sticking to his face and making a grab for his sports bottle. Unlike the teasing from the first week and a half Yuuri'd witnessed, this time Mila doesn't try to dangle it just out of reach and instead hands it over without fuss. Another small sign that they're all serious and buckling down for the last few days of practice before Europeans.

 

After a few gulps Yuri pulls free for air, leaning against the barrier as he uses his free hand to rake his loose fringe from his face. He glances up and makes a face at the three of them.

 

"What're you all laughing at?" he asks, grumpy. Mila's eyes crinkle in amusement and she reaches over to pat Yuri on the head. He swats at her.

 

"Nothing!" she insists as Georgi hums overly innocently and adds, "Reminiscing. It's calmer than last year, don't you think, Yura?"

 

The face Yuri makes is... something. Like he's torn between his familiar grimace and the large, sharp-toothed grin he'd been sporting in the days following the Grand Prix Finals.

 

"God, don't remind me," Yuri growls, shooting a dark look over his shoulder to where Victor seems to be half-listening to Yakov's directions and half going it over himself to see if he agrees. "At least the asshole's letting other people use the rink this time."

 

"And not stealing your phone," Mila adds.

 

"He couldn't do anything with it now even if he tried," Yuri grumbles, taking another draw of his drink. "I changed the security code like, six times since."

 

"And he has his own source now," Georgi says, glancing at Yuuri. Yuuri looks back, growing more and more bewildered. "He hasn't teased you about that since he left last April, has he?"

 

"Not that it's stopped the rest of you assholes," Yuri huffs, shooting them equally irritated looks. He slaps down his sports bottle and gives Yuuri a hard stare. "I'm beating your PCS when we face off again at Worlds, Katsudon. Watch me!"

 

Yuuri blinks. Were teenagers always this hot and cold? "I'll be waiting, then."

 

With a huff Yuri starts to skate off to return to practice. He's barely a pace away when he turns and snaps at them, "And stop speaking to the guy in Russian, for fuck's sake! I'm getting sick of that dumb look on his face every time!"

 

"He'll never learn if we don't do it sometimes!" Mila calls after him, sing-song. It's only then Yuuri realizes that the lilt of her words flows a lot smoother than her accented English. "Besides, he knows more than he thinks he does!"

 

Georgi laughs apologetically at the look Yuuri must have on his face. "Sorry, Yuka." He explains, "We switched at the point I made the joke about Victor being a professional. How much of that did you get?"

 

Oh. So that's what that look was for. "I'm not sure?" he answers. "I mean, I got that Victor was being stubborn and had... trouble with _Stay Close to Me_ until about this time last year because of something Chris said? It just doesn't make sense."

 

"Half right," Georgi nods, looking pleased. Yuuri feels his face flush. "Let's just say that you were far more distracting for Victor when you weren't around and he was very annoyed about that for a long time."

 

Yuuri... finds that hard to imagine. The jokes about half a year of pining aside, Victor has been open with Yuuri from the very beginning. Sometimes a little too open, though after the initial shock Yuuri's had few problems with it. It's part of the reason he does feel so comfortable with Victor, knowing that while Victor is definitely kind and knows how to speak carefully when he needs to, he's far more honest than the amount of charm he radiates suggests. He helps put words to the nagging feelings Yuuri has when something doesn't feel right, and does what he can to redirect any nervous energy Yuuri needs to burn off into something that can benefit him instead of just telling him to relax and ignore it. Victor's not perfect by any means, true, but...

 

Victor finally looks up from his final position for his free skate and everything about his expression shifts. From pained and severe, the end of a man lost to the madness of his own greed, he brightens and smiles wide, blue eyes bright and crinkled at the corners. He waves and blows a kiss, quickly skating away with a little more exaggeration in his movements when Yakov snaps at him to pay attention and restart the last sequence.

 

Despite the heat in his face, Yuuri still allows himself to play along and catch the blown kiss. He fights to block out the muffled snickers behind him, turning his full attention to the way Victor has to school his face with a scrunch of his nose and a roll of his shoulders to shake off the grin so he can get in the right mindset for this part of his free skate.

 

_You, Who Would Seek Glory_ \-- the companion piece to Victor's infamous short program that had, if rumors are to be believed, cost him what would have been the first true year of his untouchable winning streak. If _The Gatekeeper Watches_ , with its rich imagery of noble intent gone self-righteous (it's the reason why the costume absolutely needs the blindfold, which even to this day is equal parts insane and genius) then _Glory_ is the tale of rising above it all, coming out on top in spite everything that stands in the way.

 

Back then, it'd been a taunt at all the naysayers claiming Victor had already peaked, talk that had gotten uglier after the Grand Prix Finals that season where he'd crumpled almost immediately after and dragged himself off the ice towards the Kiss and Cry. Yuuri remembers the lump of his heart knotted in his throat and a heavily pregnant Yuuko's hands clutched into the fabric of his jacket, Nishigori running in and paling at the sight of both of them in tears. He remembers the overwhelming relief when a few days later it was announced that Victor had sprained his knee and would have to sit out the rest of the season, but he'd be fine otherwise.

 

Now, Victor's changed the story of both. The reason why seems obvious enough; with all the gossip and noise still going around about their relationship, everyone expects Victor to still be riding that high and making his programs equally charged and brilliant. But when it comes to skating, Victor's priority has always been leading everyone's attention one way and then going a completely different direction. It'd be too obvious to skate a love song again, especially when Yuuri himself is skating two, three if he counts his Exhibition piece. So instead, his programs -- and his theme overall -- are about _why_ he chased Yuuri halfway across the world.

 

_The Gatekeeper Watches_ has become the story of due diligence turned ingrained, thoughtless habit. _You, Who Would Seek Glory_ has become the story of an endless journey, with only the barest of scraps to keep hope alive and continue on the path chosen so many years ago. Victor's implied to Yuuri that the resolution will be in his actual Exhibition program, which he's gleefully kept to himself and apparently only practices when Yuuri's off being poked at in Russian with Lilia. Yuuri won't lie, he's a little wary about it, but still, it's... exciting.

 

Just... Victor Nikiforov. The single-most decorated figure skater in history, who Yuuri's admired since he was so young, who wears the gold band that Yuuri gave him with more pride than the three-dozen or so gold medals he's won over the years. And he's made a no-holds-barred program for an Exhibition he wants to surprise Yuuri with _specifically_.

 

"Vitya, enough showing off!" Yuuri hears Yakov snap, startling Yuuri back to attention. "You're a grown man, act like one!"

 

Victor is, indeed, showing off. Yuuri has to bite his cheek as Victor sashays back into easy range of where he's standing, allowing him to pass by with a wink and a cheekier grin than the one from before-- wait. What is that sticking out of his waistband?

 

"Victor," he calls out, narrowing his eyes at the little bundle of knit fabric he's spotted. "Is that the glove I was missing this morning?"

 

"May~be," Victor responds, the heartful curve of his grin too wide as he skates off for the other end of his half of the rink again. "Maybe not! You'll have to come and see for yourself!"

 

"No one wants to hear it, old man!" Yuri snaps from the other end. "God, you're a disgrace! I'm kicking your ass just for that!"

 

Behind him, Yuuri hears Georgi snort.

 

"So it continues," Georgi says, definitely in Russian. "It seems no one is free from Vik-Pocket."

 

"Nadezhda Pavlovna really has the right idea calling him a magpie," Mila sighs in kind, a small laugh coloring it. "Too bad he'd get mad if any of us use it. It suits him perfectly."

 

* * *

 

 

Ideally, the day before a flight out to a competition should be calm, spent resting and going through luggage to ensure that everything needed over the next few days is, in fact, in the bag where it belongs. Light stretching and a review of the programs in full is fine, but definitely nothing too intense.

 

Again: _ideally_.

 

This isn't even Yuuri's competition and he's up before dawn courtesy of Victor rolling out of bed with a yawn, only pausing on his trek towards the dresser and closet to press a kiss into Yuuri's hair and ruffle Maccachin's ears. Yuuri grumbles in response and tries to bury himself into the blankets again, but Maccachin does his own grumbling and stretches, kicking him in the hip right where a bruise from a tumble last week is finally fading in color if not soreness.

 

The squawk that startles both of them into falling off the bed -- which makes Victor peer back into the room with a barely smothered laugh and a cursory "Is everything okay in here?" -- aside, everything is quick to right itself and Yuuri stands at the kitchen counter not long after, a whining furry shadow pressed against his calf.

 

(Yuuri's not entirely sure if Maccachin is that upset about being upended out of bed or if he's just hoping that if he looks miserable enough, Yuuri will take pity on him and give him some of the scrambled eggs he's preparing.)

 

Just because Victor needs his break, though, it doesn't mean that Yuuri can get away with having an extra free day. Since everyone else is more or less going to be only in to satisfy their routines and go through their programs, the rink is going to be far less busy. It gives him the freedom and space to go through his own programs, though for him the next big competition isn't for nearly another month. More than that, though, it means that for the first time in a while, it's the start of having more of Victor's attention again as his priorities shift from competitor to coach.

 

He wonders if he should feel more guilty about it. After all, he'd been the one to insist that Victor return to skating; he'd known that meant sacrificing precious time together. He'd figured it wouldn't be too different from when he had to share Celestino with Phichit and the small handful of others in Detroit, most of his practice time spent on his own and mostly using what he had allotted to him to go over what he seemed to be doing wrong and fixing it to the best of their abilities.

 

Except, it seems, he's gotten spoiled by having Victor all to himself. Though they live together and still spend a large portion of their day in each other's company, Victor isn't as focused when they're one-on-one like he was before. He doesn't want to burden Victor further, but he misses the way hours blended together before, the lines between coach and guest and idol and something much more touchable barely there.

 

Yuuri doesn't dare ask for more than Victor can muster, though. It's... harder than he expected, yes, but he can deal with it. Yuuri's always been a little bit of a loner, in both circumstance and necessity. It's just odd, sensing something that doesn't feel right in a sequence and looking up to see Victor either on the other end of the rink or with his attention split between watching Yuuri and keeping an ear open for Yakov. Even in the apartment at the end of the day, he's always so tired...

 

There _has_ to be something more he can do. Just... what?

 

Victor pads up while Yuuri is plating breakfast, leaning over with a hand slipping up and over Yuuri's shoulder, thumb serving as an anchor as he leans in over Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri presses his cheek to Victor's, not wanting to take his eyes off the burner because he knows what his luck is like. He feels Victor smile and nuzzle back, humming a greeting in low Russian along with a word Yuuri's heard him use with him a few times that he still hasn't quite figured out. It doesn't seem bad, though; Victor's tone is too indulgent for it to be his occasional teasing. A diminutive, probably. Yuuri still has a lot of trouble with those, compared to how simple things are in Japanese.

 

"Good morning to you, too," Yuuri parrots back. "Did you have anything special planned for today?"

 

Victor sighs, "Just a quick run-through, as well, really. We're flying out tomorrow and Yakov's already yelled at me enough for mixing up choreography these past few weeks." Yuuri opens his mouth without thinking, an apology already on his lips, but Victor beats him to the punch with a kiss and adds, "He'd be yelling at me for letting my mind wander anyway. It's nothing new."

 

Yuuri blinks, caught off-guard, but nods along. "Okay. If that's what works for you."

 

Victor's the one with a heavy load on his shoulders, not Yuuri. If he needs to unwind, if he needs to shrug off the expectations on him just long enough for a breather, then Yuuri can certainly withstand a little loneliness every now and then. For Victor's sake.

 

As predicted, the rink isn't too busy with last-minute preparations when they arrive but there's still a small crowd as they sneak in through the back and warm up together. The general public is kept mostly to the front, allowing anyone who needs the privacy to practice without disruption.

 

For a moment, as they're going through their routine, it almost feels like they're back in Hasetsu. But the voices around them are familiar only because they're the same voices Yuuri's heard over the past month, not the voices from a far-off childhood all too different and still the same at their core he'd experienced when he first returned to his hometown after five years abroad. The kids he hears are the Novices and Juniors who keep sneaking glances at the two of them in the most ridiculously unsubtle ways, as kids tend to do from Yuuri's limited experience. He can read the signs for the most part (at the very least, he can guess from context if the word looks unfamiliar) but he still goes a little cross-eyed at the thin loops on the sign-in sheet he sees on occasion. There's a certain degree of friendliness, but today it's much more subdued as everyone participating focuses and works off their pre-flight and pre-competition nerves before tomorrow and those who aren't try to stay out of their way while getting their own practice in.

 

He wonders, distantly, if this is anything like how Victor felt those first couple of weeks in Japan.

 

On their way to the rink proper, they bump into Mila and her friend chatting and making faces at each other, which judging by the severity of their exaggerated frowns and the gruffness of their harrumphs is probably complaining about Yakov. Or making fun of Yuri. It's hard to tell with Mila sometimes.

 

She notices them as they pass and breaks character to wave at them before returning to her conversation. Victor's lip twitches as they watch the two girls walk away down the hall, the same gleeful light twinkling in them from this morning's goofiness.

 

"Yurio?" he asks to clarify.

 

"Yurio," Victor says. "Yakov is grumpy, but at least he's honest about it."

 

The rink is theirs for the meantime. Victor sets his gear down on a bench and Yuuri follows suit. While Victor is preoccupied with sorting out music again, Yuuri takes to the ice and starts on compulsory figures to warm up. He's not entirely sure when Victor finishes his prep, but on the second half of a paragraph he catches the sight of Victor leaning against the boards, chin cradled in his palm and the comfortable weight of his eyes on Yuuri, undoubtedly smiling even without glasses for Yuuri to see for himself.

 

And there in the doorway behind Victor, watching with neutral expressions, are Lilia and Nadezhda, both in their familiar, respective goldenrod-yellow and cinnamon-red.

 

Yuuri tries not to falter and alert Victor to their presence. It's not exactly a secret that the two women are friends, but Yuuri still doesn't know how many people are in the know when it comes to Victor's family. Besides, it's not like the two of them seem to have planned this either. There's a large envelope tucked under Nadezhda's arm, and Lilia has a loose lock of hair falling from her bun like she usually does after a rigorous practice that she keeps trying to smooth back.

 

Still, Victor had been both furious and hurt when they last crossed paths before New Years'. Yuuri doubts that a month is enough time for all of that to have subsided, not when Victor still avoids the topic like the plague. But how in the world can Yuuri keep Victor from turning and seeing them?

 

A brief, absolutely crazy thought hits him and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort to force down the flush. There is at least _one_ guaranteed way to make sure Victor doesn't pay attention to the world around him. It's just... not exactly the most appropriate thing in front of this particular audience. But Yuuri would rather have an overeager Victor getting distracted for silly reasons than one so upset he tires himself out and risks screwing up his chances at Europeans. It's hardly much of a choice at all, really.

 

In his mind, he sends an apology to Yakov, Yuri, and Nadezhda herself for good measure.

 

Victor blinks as Yuuri skates up to the barrier, hands curling over the boards and leaning in just barely enough to be noticeable. "Yes, Yuuri?"

 

"I want _Eros_ , and it has to be all the way," Yuuri requests, keeping his voice low. Victor immediately falters, but Yuuri feels the full searing brand of Victor's focus on him and him alone. Good. "It's been so long since we've done it properly, you know."

 

"Have you stretched enough for it?" Victor asks, his own voice dropping. A thumb drag along his bare forearm, slow and descending down to the sensitive skin of his wrist peeking out from his glove.

 

"You watched, didn't you?" Yuuri teases, already feeling the heat in his cheeks. He leans in closer; he swears he feels Victor's breath catch a little and his own flush and drive to do this strengthens. "But just in case, you should keep a really close eye on me. Don't look away even once. Okay?"

 

Victor probably sees right through him. Still, he's not calling Yuuri out on how ridiculous the timing of this is, so he may as well keep going.

 

Another dumb idea hits him and he figures that if he's going with this, there's nothing wrong with pouring his all into it before the embarrassment catches up. It's what many previous instructors have noted about him, coaches and teachers and choreographers alike. That's... actually why Celestino had liked him enough to offer him a spot in his rink in Detroit all those years ago, wasn't it? Even if he ended up finding out the hard way Yuuri wasn't always like that?

 

Yuuri is going to have to apologize to _so many people_ , god.

 

The dumb idea, naturally, is to lean in just a little closer, close enough that he and Victor may as well be skin-to-skin, close enough for Yuuri to count every one of Victor's long pale lashes if he really wanted to take his time with this. And then, slowly, he pulls off his right glove, finger by finger, and tucks it into Victor's fisted grip on the boards. It'll be fine. Yuuri usually uses his left hand to catch himself if he falls out of a jump. It might be cheating a little bit, but all's fair right now.

 

"Take care of that for me," Yuuri parts with, voice straining with the effort to not break character, and allows himself at least the mental wailing as he forces his turn to be slow and with a little extra sway as he makes his way to center rink. He has a good reason for wanting his right hand bare right now, after all.

 

For his part, Victor seems stunned speechless when Yuuri glances back to make sure his plan's working. Even without his glasses Yuuri can see the pink blooming on Victor's pale features, never spreading quite as much as Yuuri's blushes tend to but concentrated on the areas it does show. He... certainly has Victor's full attention right now. That's good, right?

 

Over in the doorway, though Yuuri's vision and distance makes it too hard to pick out any distinct features, he swears Nadezhda raises her eyebrows at him in disbelief and Lilia sighs in what might be exasperation. Yuuri supposes he should add her to the list while he's at it. She has been very helpful to Yuuri this past month, if not too accommodating.

 

Right. _Eros_.

 

Drop the one hip. Loosen the shoulders. Close his eyes. Count the beat and hope and pray that this gambit doesn't fail halfway through.

 

...And one last apology to everyone whose schedules he's ruining with this in some way.

 

Victor becomes his primary thought as he goes through the opening movements. How to emulate that properly? The obvious choice is body language, but a program is perfectly choreographed and Yuuri can't risk deviating from it without the chance he'll get off-beat. This is just as much to show off Victor's accomplishments at this point, not just the fact Victor chose him out of everyone else in the world who's wanted his time and attention.

 

\--Oh, there's an idea.

 

In the silent beat where Yuuri is supposed to turn and smile, equal parts inviting and coy, he decides to add a little flair of the familiar. When he turns, he brings up his ungloved hand, the morning sunlight from the windows glinting off his ring, and presses the tip of his forefinger to the bow of his lips, winking in the best approximation he can muster of Victor's infamous charming smile.

 

He knows, even as he skates away with what should be the croon of the violin, that he's got this. There still might be technical issues to work out -- there always is with him, it seems -- but if there is any language that Yuuri speaks better than his own native tongue or the necessity of English, it's music in nearly every form. And here, though he can't always put the right words in Russian to things and has to constantly keep his thumb hovering over the dictionary he has downloaded into his phone, there isn't a soul who could be watching him right now that can't understand him.

 

Even though his audience right now is small, focused entirely on one person alone, Yuuri doesn't let that stop him from broadcasting as much as he can to the few people who see. Nadezhda doubted that Victor could juggle his life because he'd apparently failed before? He'll prove her wrong, show her just how little she knows about her grandson as he is now. Lilia thinks they'll do nothing but distract the other, so they should just ignore each other? Let her see just why they were able to click so seamlessly together once Yuuri stopped letting his hero-worship get in the way.

 

It may be up to Victor to prove that he can skate just as well as before now that he's also coaching, but Yuuri has the utmost confidence in him. People don't just fall into a continuous cycle of winning, like their very name was a prophecy of their life; they work for it, one way or another, even if they have a natural affinity for it. Every single one of Victor's records could eventually be broken and it wouldn't matter. There's never going to be another skater like Victor again.

 

This is the same man who's been called the sexiest bachelor in the world by various sources and the first thing that pops in Yuuri's mind is how absurdly cute his smile is. This is the same man who has one of the most rigorous training regimens Yuuri's undergone and somehow he's the one showing Yuuri how to relax and take in the world around him. And people think he can't possibly be a doting coach and the relentless competitor he's always been? That anyone who wins gold this season won't have earned it because Victor wasn't at his best?

 

If that's the way the world's going to be, now that Victor's returning to make his comeback, then they don't deserve him.

 

His chest heaves as he wraps himself in his finishing pose, the image in his mind not that of casting off someone but rather taking his lover and jealously hoarding them away. He doesn't break from position or look up until he feels his heart slow from its almost painful pace, wondering distantly if he's still making this performance a little too personal. Except the judges seem to like overly personal apparently, if he looks at his scores over the season so far. Just like everyone else. Go figure.

 

It might be because of this he's so caught off-guard when he finally releases his pose and looks up to see Victor already halfway across the rink and quickly closing what gap remains, a look darkening his face into something intense and burning bright. Against his better judgement, Yuuri bites back a squawk and skates off in retreat. Victor's longer legs give him all the advantage he needs, and all too quickly Yuuri finds himself caught against the boards in a pass.

 

"I can't believe you," Victor groans as he pulls in close; the low rumble roughing up the natural silkiness of his voice really shouldn't be so gratifying. "That was a very dirty play, Yuuri. I'd call sabotage if we were competing."

 

Yuuri forces down the laugh hinging on hysterical bubbling in his throat. "I thought you knew _Eros_ wasn't exactly innocent."

 

"Such cheek," Victor responds with, and proceeds to make sure Yuuri can't keep it up by pretty much kissing him boneless. He's not sure if it's normal to feel a little like his soul's ascending from its earthly vessel, but hey. It works. He's not going to complain.

 

There's a crash behind Yuuri and he thinks he hears an indignant shriek that sounds a lot like Yuri, which Yuuri should probably be more concerned about given the boy's recent habit of carrying around a spray bottle solely because of moments like this. Although it's usually only in the locker room. Maybe he won't have it on him this time?

 

Victor pulls away just enough for Yuuri to see his eyes twinkle and he swallows, tightening his grip on Victor's shirt.

 

They're in the center of the ice by the time Yuri clamors to the boards, hissing and spitting at them with a raised fist.

 

"Every time!" Yuri snaps at them. "Can I go _one day_ without you two sucking face at some point in front of me? Is that so much to ask!?"

 

Victor laughs. "This is the _only_ time you've caught us, Yurio!"

 

Yuuri groans and buries his face in Victor's shoulder. "Please don't phrase it like that. It makes it sound like we sneak around all the time!"

 

"Yakov!" Yuri whines, but the man snorts and walks for the other set of doors. Yuuri swallows his heart back down and tightens his hold so Victor can't turn and look himself. "They're being annoying! Make them stop!"

 

"As long as Vitya actually practices like he should today, I don't care," is Yakov's blunt retort. "Maybe for once, he'll go home on time." Still, Yakov pauses halfway to the door, squinting before turning to face the rink to bellow out, "Off the ice, Katsuki! You've had your fun!"

 

As Yuuri stiffens and pulls himself off and away from Victor, who whines about being overruled but gets to work on his own warm-ups anyway, he chances a glance back to the open doors. The two women have left, it seems, or at least picked up the cue to stay out of sight. That's a bit of a relief, though Yuuri does wonder why Nadezhda couldn't wait a few days longer to make an appearance.

 

When he sits himself on the bench, though, he catches the tail-end of a fading conversation.

 

From further down the hall he hears Nadezhda hoot to Lilia, "Does that happen often, or is today just special?"

 

"I think you already know the answer to that," Lilia sighs. "Truly, those two are as bad as each other."

 

"Serves him right," Nadezhda huffs in response. "Stubborn child deserves nothing less."

 

* * *

 

 

Honestly? Yuuri's not even sure why he's here.

 

"To prevent Vitya from being even more ridiculous," is Yakov's grumbled reasoning. "I don't need him with his head in the clouds because you're elsewhere."

 

Yuuri turns to look at Victor, who for an only child is doing a fantastic rendition of the Older Sibling™ grin as Yuri scowls at him for being too close. He glances back to Yakov, confused. "Was he that bad at Nationals?"

 

Yakov stares off into the distance, looking almost pained. "You were better at keeping yourself occupied, even if Vitya performed better under the pressure."

 

Ah. So Yuuri's competition nerves are good for something after all. "I'll keep that in mind then, Coach Yakov."

 

"See that you do." And after a pause, he claps a hand to Yuuri's shoulder and drags him in close. "You prevented a very unnecessary confrontation yesterday and I appreciate that. But if you disrupt my skaters like that again? I don't care how much Vitya will whine, _I am leaving you to fend for yourself_. Am I clear, Katsuki?"

 

Yuuri feels the blood drain out of his face and swallows, not making eye contact and looking instead at the far-off end of the hall in Bratislava's airport. "Yes, sir."

 

Yakov squints at him, still looking suspicious. Yuuri can't really blame him. Though Yuuri did insist that Victor stay long enough to do what he needed, the two of them pretty much vanished from the center by noon. To much teasing. Mostly from the usual crowd, though a few unfamiliar faces made remarks that Victor flat-out ignored. Yuuri feels like he doesn't really want to know what they said. It's not like it matters anyway. Victor got his last day of practice in _and_ there wasn't another big, tense argument in front of everyone that would've been awkward at best with the company present, not to mention Victor still got his rest in. It's enough of a win for Yuuri.

 

Admittedly, not everybody's too happy about his methods. Yuri's already chewed him out for the stunt. Multiple times. In varying degrees of vulgarity. Yuuri is glad to know he only understood part of it because English wasn't good enough after a point, evidently. It's probably the most Russian Yuri's spoken to him ever, though Yuuri's not sure how much of it will be useful.

 

(He… really needs the mental break from studying, doesn't he.)

 

Yakov frowns at him one last time in warning, but lets him go without further scrutiny. It doesn't take long after that for Victor to gravitate back to his side, easily slotting an arm over Yuuri's shoulders and pulling up his more princely persona for the crowds they hear well before they see. It's not quite the same as what he's built up for the press to deal with before he began appearing as Yuuri's coach, but it's similar in the sense that that while Victor keeps the rest of the world at a kindly if distant arms' length, Yuuri is part of his inner circle now and is to be treated with the same respect they'd give him.

 

"Don't mind Yakov, love," Victor says, leaning in to press a kiss to Yuuri's hair. There's garbled noises from the crowd as they turn the corner and a flurry of flashbulbs going off. Yuuri decides he really doesn't want to know. "He's mostly hot air. It's why he's so loud, you know?"

 

Yakov scowls at Victor. "I would've thought you'd learn to stop sassing your coach after becoming one."

 

"You'd just wonder if I was up to something," Victor brushes off easily. Yakov's face does an odd twist, like he technically agrees but also doesn't want to admit it. Victor's lip quirks up at the corners knowingly. Yakov's glare darkens. It's kind of amazing, how well the two can read each other. Yuuri supposes that's just what happens when you've had the same coach for most of your career.

 

It's nice, actually. He can see where Victor's taking his cues as a coach watching how Yakov interacts with his skaters, though he's still lacking overall from inexperience. Yakov knows what they're capable of, expects nothing less than their best, and then makes sure that they have the support it takes to make that happen. He's... loud, yes, and gets a lot snappier than Celestino ever did, but from what Yuuri knows of the Russian team so far they need and appreciate the stricter discipline.

 

It's understandable. Many of them went competitive younger than many of the people Yuuri knows by a few years, including himself, when most kids are so quick to tire of something for any reason. He knows Victor started in Novices pretty much as soon as he could. He knows that there's a few unaccounted years between then and when he first started competing, a time only Victor and his family really know. And even then, there's no real evidence of those years besides what little still exists in his childhood home. The single, thoroughly beaten-up pair of child-sized skates hanging on the bedroom wall there only tells part of the story.

 

Yuuri doesn't know what Nadezhda wants out of Victor that apparently started the current state of affairs between them. He knows the two of them are equally stubborn and sharp-tongued, and that while Victor's learned how to use his charm to soothe the sting of his words, Nadezhda either lacks that skill or she finds it unnecessary. Yuuri knows that Victor has ridiculous control over his temper; he's seen him brush off offenses that even make Yuuri bristle in response and force him to bite his tongue. Even when he was younger, other than the cameras occasionally catching him pouting or rolling his eyes the moment Yakov's back was turned, he'd been good at maintaining pleasantries.

 

So if that's the case, then why...?

 

"Yuuri." Fingertips press into the curve of his back, and Yuuri startles and glances up to meet Victor's eyes over the brim of his sunglasses. He hadn't even noticed how closely he's listed to Victor's shoulder, leaning into him in spite of obviously walking. "We have to get to the hotel and settle in. Can you hold on until then?"

 

"What a baby," Yuri scoffs, and sputters as his jaw immediately cracks open with a yawn. Mila bites her lip and turns to snicker, earning a dark glower from Yuri.

 

"Don't any of you start this again," Yakov grumbles, shooting them all a warning look. "And Vitya?"

 

Victor barely glances up. "Hm?"

 

"You're sharing a room with Yura and Katsuki will stay with me. I don't trust you two alone, especially after yesterday."

 

It's a near thing, but Yuuri does manage (barely) to avoid tripping and falling flat on his face in spite of the sudden lead in his feet and the fact Victor actually stops to gawk at Yakov.

 

* * *

 

The crowd is different.

 

Yuuri can't quite place why -- sure, the language is different, though the hum of English in several accents along with other tongues is an old comfort he hadn't realized how much he missed after nearly a year away from Detroit. Europeans has always been that odd competition no one he really knew well enough to consider a friend ever attended, either as a spectator or a participant. Celestino trained no one from this part of the world, hands full with what talent was local with the odd foreigner like him and Phichit from across the Pacific.

 

No, there's something else about the atmosphere that's different from what he's used to, but he can't put his finger on it.

 

He senses more than sees someone taking a seat next to him. From the corner of his eye he sees the nice suit, much more polished than the slacks and shirt Yuuri wears under his jacket. He chances a look, a tentative quirk of a smile on his face.

 

\--Ah. It's... Wait, what was his name again? Yuuri is sure Christophe introduced them in Barcelona...

 

"Hello," Christophe's choreographer greets with an incline of his chin. "Supporting your new rinkmates, I assume?"

 

Yuuri hesitates before nodding. "No one wanted to, um. Leave me by myself. Since I'm still kind of..."

 

The man huffs something like a dry laugh. "Oh, I remember those days. My partner was from the Philippines, and she pretty much stuck to me like glue the first six months because she barely trusted her English and then became overwhelmed with all the French, Italian, and German."

 

Ugh. Yuuri's head is swimming just at the thought.

 

"It's admirable that you're taking learning so seriously," the man continues. "I've overheard from Chris' conversations with Victor that you're picking it up surprisingly fast."

 

Yuuri coughs. "I, um. Studied briefly in college. A friend who's conversational in it needed a Japanese tutor, but we weren't able to continue for... a number of reasons. Then Victor came and, well..."

 

"Ah." The man nods. "You aren't playing this completely by ear, then. That's good."

 

"It's still really confusing," Yuuri admits weakly. The man shrugs, a faint smile on his lips.

 

The earlier commotion in the back halls aside (somehow, Yuri had brought the spray bottle in his bag and was threatening Victor with it every chance he got; Yakov confiscated it and passed it onto Yuuri with a look that clearly said to stay out of the way to avoid things escalating), things seem to be settling into a sense of normalcy even with the low buzz of excitement in the air for those waiting to see Victor skate internationally for the first time this season. The sight of him on the sidelines in his ivory and dove-gray costume, the feather-ticked pattern on the silks that will hide and hood his eyes currently loose over his shoulders, is more than enough to send a thrill through the audience. At the swell of the crowd's cheers, he smiles and waves, but even from here Yuuri can see the way his face has shifted, the dignified way he carries himself that's nothing like the gentle slope of his shoulders when he's at ease.

 

He hears a sigh next to him. "They don't believe he can do it, you know."

 

Yuuri blinks, turning to see him stare out over the ice as the ice is smoothed over between the first and second groups. "What?"

 

"Victor." He gestures loosely, frowning just enough to wrinkle his brow. "Even if he got gold at the Russian Nationals, there's plenty of people who think it's a fluke. That he was overscored because he's Victor Nikiforov. Why would the country that wanted him back so badly score him low, even at the expense of their rising star?"

 

Yuuri grits his teeth, his jaw tensing. He remembers Yuuko and everyone's muttered complaints about how people were treating Victor's renewed programs, having hunted down their own streams of that while Yuuri was away in Sendai. "Do you believe them?"

 

The man purses his lips. "I think it shows he hasn't been training like he usually does in his technique, but his presentation's made up for that. Which is understandable, if a little aggravating." He scoffs. "An unstoppable force, indeed."

 

With a one-shouldered shrug, Yuuri considers the topic dropped. Still, now that it's been brought to his attention again, he can't help but scrutinize the murmur of the crowd and the glances the judges keep shooting each other. Do they really think Victor's not capable of making a comeback? Why? Because of his age? Because of Yuuri?

 

He thinks of the Hikoboshi and Orihime jokes from summer again, the implications people keep making that they're useless together and worse for having met. He thinks of the silver GPF medal in his childhood home that his parents have proudly on display for everyone to see. He thinks of the minor fractions of a point that prevented that medal from being gold instead, the sour look in Yuri's eyes and the faint shadow over JJ's. He thinks of the press conference in September where he'd first let the irritation crackling under his skin loose, how quickly he pushed back when the world got their first look at Victor's influence on him as a coach because they were looking for something else, the way he snapped even at the woman who'd raised Victor into who he is today for being cutting and cold.

 

Maybe it's for the best that Yuuri still struggles to pick apart the hushed Russian he hears at the rink and on the street, because here where he can understand their accented English--

 

("Of course Victor would do something like this. Why'd we ever think otherwise."

 

"There's no way he's going to pull this off, not if he couldn't do it when he was younger."

 

"I guess this is one way to force yourself into coaching. Screwing yourself over with a program that's way too complicated."

 

"Can't he just pick a side and move on with his life? I kind of feel sorry for Katsuki for putting up with this bull.")

 

\--all Yuuri wants to do is make it _stop_.

 

The worst part, he knows, is that when it comes down to it, even if things had gone differently or like how Yuuri actually planned them, this would still be happening. He insisted that Victor return because he saw the longing he'd never admit to, not openly. As much as it hurt, it was all for Victor to ensure that he had no lingering regrets about choosing Yuuri in the end. He didn't do it for the rest of the world to try and make Victor bleed himself dry for them. Yuuri cares too much about the goofy, sweet man under the glamor of prince-like charm to let that happen again.

 

Everything Yuuri's ever sacrificed has been for Victor. Like hell is he going to let anyone interfere with that.

 

"Are you going to head down?"

 

Yuuri startles, turning to blink as Christophe's choreographer stares back at him evenly. "Excuse me?"

 

"It's almost time for the second group to begin, if they're already out and at rinkside," he says simply. "If you want to head down and wish him luck, no one will stop you." A pause. "He'd probably appreciate it. I don't think I've ever seen anyone with him besides his coach."

 

The reminder makes Yuuri's stomach flip, all too aware of what the reasons for that could be now. Sure, it may have never been done with ill intent -- it's not like Yuuri's own family really has the time to make it to his competitions either, not with the inn -- but he does wonder if things would've been different for Victor, had he went into the rink with the knowledge that he'd be seen and greeted off the ice by someone who actually knew him.

 

Well, that doesn't matter anymore. He does have someone like that now. Yuuri will make sure of it.

 

On his way down he bumps into Christophe running through his own stretches, who gives him an amused look before pointing him in the right direction and a light warning to not get Victor too worked up before he skates. A few officials give him odd looks as he mumbles apologies while weaving his way through, but surprisingly he doesn't get turned around or away in this strange (to him) venue and its back halls.

 

By the time he makes it back to the rink, the second set is finishing their warm-ups. Yuuri's heart leaps into this throat, nerves suddenly crackling to life in his chest. Still, he swallows it down, forcing his feet forward as Yakov glances over and snorts just shy of disbelieving but makes no move to shoo him off this time.

 

"You're a very different kind of stubborn and disobedient than Vitya," he grouses with little heat. "Celestino warned me, but I hadn't thought you were this bad."

 

"I'm sorry," Yuuri says automatically. He glances up at the display. Victor's going first in this group. So he got here just in time, then.

 

"Don't bother apologizing if you're just going to do it anyway," Yakov huffs. Yuuri flushes a little, wondering if he really comes off as that insincere. "Since he listens to _you_ , I expect you to actually make sure he doesn't do anything stupid out there."

 

And just like that, Yakov steps to the side and allows Yuuri to come closer, just as the skaters for the second group come off the ice save Victor.

 

Despite himself, Yuuri feels the heat in his face flare up when Victor falters at the sight of him, blue eyes widening just barely and the curve of his lips threatening to bend into his now more familiar wide smile. He manages to find it in him to step up to the boards, and as he approaches there's something in Victor's face that's blooming and feeding into Yuuri's meager spike of courage.

 

"You came down," Victor says, sounding a little winded. There's a stubborn bit of pink on the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, darker than they probably should be.

 

"Why wouldn't I?" he hears himself ask in return. Victor blinks, and he forces himself to press on. "I always wanted to see you off even once. I just... didn't think I'd ever have the chance."

 

Embarrassing as it is to admit that, especially in earshot of staff and the other competitors, Yuuri can't help but bask in the way Victor 's entire face melts at his words.

 

"Well, you'll have plenty of opportunities from now on, darling," Victor laughs, eyes twinkling. He reaches for Yuuri's hand, squeezing Yuuri's fingers with a firmer grip than Yuuri expects. "Say, Yuuri? Can you do me a favor?"

 

Yuuri blinks. "Yes?"

 

Victor smiles and leans in closer; the loose cloth that will make up the blindfold of his costume hangs between them. "Will you tie it back for me? Just to make sure it's tight enough."

 

Yuuri's hands are already moving, the fabric like liquid between his fingers. Still, he hesitates as he reaches up, a small but stubborn pinprick of self-consciousness bubbling up. "Are you sure?"

 

"I want you to be the last thing I see before I go," Victor admits. He ducks his head and peers at Yuuri through his lashes, and Yuuri distantly wonders if this is payback for the other day. "And the first thing I see when I come back."

 

A smothered cough from one of the other competitors in this group -- Yuuri doesn't know him, he thinks the guy's the UK representative? -- comes from somewhere to Yuuri's left, but he ignores it as he breathes in and reaches forward. Victor's eyes are already dutifully closed, the thin wire frame keeping the sheer fabric from pressing too closely to his lashes just barely brushing them as Yuuri tries not to catch any of Victor's fine hairs in the knot. The whole setup impairs his vision drastically, true, but as long as he can see enough of the boards to have a good idea of their distance there's nothing in the rink that can interfere. It's stupid and risky and sure, Yuuri gets why people think Victor's lost it, trying this program again after what it cost him last time, but...

 

"Davai," Yuuri whispers as he draws his hands away, pausing only to quickly brush his fingertips over the curve of Victor's jawline. Victor straightens and smiles down at him, face still impossibly fond despite the fact half of it's covered.

 

He watches Victor's retreating form head for the center of the rink in a closing spiral, alert and back straight, showing no fear as he positions himself to the roar of the curious crowd who's so desperate to see if Victor's gotten too soft to defend his titles. Next to Yuuri, Yakov sighs and grumbles something about Victor finally learning to be more cautious, even if it did take several years and an accident to get through to him.

 

If anybody can do this, it's Victor. Yuuri knows this better than anyone.

 

* * *

 

 

Early the morning of the Exhibition Gala, Yuuri finds himself at Yuri and Victor's door on Yakov's orders to ensure that they're both ready for the afternoon's events and the Banquet later this evening.

 

Ordinarily, he wouldn't hesitate like this, waffling on whether or not to knock, at least not to this extent. What stays his hand and leaves him hovering in between reasons to pull back and push forward is the muffled, sour-sounding Russian he's hearing through the door in Yuri's growl, only bits and pieces clear enough for Yuuri to try and decipher on his own. It might be for the best; he's pretty sure Yuri's getting really worked up over whatever it is they're talking about in there.

 

A decision's made for him before he can decide whether or not to interrupt. The door flings open, practically rattling on its hinges as Yuri stomps out, shrugging his coat on and a scowl already firmly on his face. He falters only slightly at the sight of Yuuri, blinking a handful of times in bewilderment before his face resets to its previous huffiness and he squares his shoulders.

 

"If you're here for the old man," he bites out, "then good fucking luck. I don't know how you can stand him."

 

And with that, he marches off down the hall towards the elevators, his bag slung over his shoulder. Yuuri blinks after him, not entirely sure if he should follow for damage control or finish doing what he was told to and ensure Victor is out and ready within the hour.

 

Either way, the door's been left open and he does still have to go in. He still murmurs a low, "Sorry for intruding" he's never really broken the habit of as he step inside, mindful of how the entry is laid out. The room itself is oddly quiet with Yuri's absence, just this side of unsettling. A part of it comes off as almost familiar, but for the life of him Yuuri can't figure out why.

 

When he sees Victor he's seated in the armchair by the window, chin in his palm as he looks out over the sunrise reflecting off the windows of the city's skyline. He has a distant look in his eyes, lips faintly downturned at the corners. He looks contemplative almost, but Yuuri knows better by now. Victor's mind tends to go into overdrive when he's in planning, and it reflects itself on his face with bright-eyed cheekiness and the curl of his dimples deepening. If he's like this instead, is he...?

 

Yuuri shakes the thought from his head. No, Victor's not like that. He has his petty moments, everyone does, but he wouldn't sulk about it like this. He's not that kind of person.

 

As he approaches, Victor looks up and smiles, setting the book on his raised leg aside without a second thought. He reaches for Yuuri's hand, pulling him gently forward until his knees are flush with the armchair's cushion.

 

"Good morning," Victor greets, voice warm. He lifts Yuuri's hand still in his to his cheek, nuzzling it. "I miss you already, you know. Yakov hasn't been this strict with me in years and I don't like it one bit."

 

Yuuri tries to keep down the flush. "He just wants you at your best." And because he is a little curious, "What did you say to Yurio? He looked more annoyed than he usually does when I saw him."

 

Victor gives a hum, noncommittal. "He borrowed a book from my collection for classes when he came over last and only just returned it. I hadn't even known it was missing, but it's the principle of the matter."

 

Yuuri glances down to the book resting on the windowsill. It's definitely a well-loved book, worn at the corners and the gold lettering on its cover and spine faded. He can kind of make out the title -- it kind of sounds like the word _nocturne_ if he rolls it over in his head -- but the author's name is almost completely rubbed off, only a faint outline of gold in the indent of the cover in the shape of an _A_. He can kind of understand why Victor would be a little put out by finding out it's missing, though he certainly doesn't remember seeing Victor with it in Hasetsu.

 

"Why did he need it?" Yuuri asks instead of pointing out that Victor really doesn't have much of a leg to stand on considering his habit of sticky-fingers.

 

"He needed to analyze a poem," Victor says, lips pursing. "I'm surprised he didn't choose someone who's better known. This one's fairly obscure even for my standards. He's certainly not one of the greats."

 

Yuuri hums. "Well, Yurio does tend to give things his all and then some when he's motivated."

 

"Even if his motivation is purely to avoid extra work finding translations for his tutor," Victor huffs in response. "Oh well. This is about as far from his tastes as a poet can get. I can take that as its own justice."

 

As he says this, Victor reaches for the book again, idly turning it in his hands and slipping a finger into the cover. Even the binding looks beaten up; how many times has Victor flipped through this book, possibly even going cover to cover in his rare moments to himself? Surely, no matter how obscure this particular poet is, if Victor likes him he must have a way with words?

 

The faded gold on the cover reminds Yuuri of what he initially came here for, though, and he breathes in before asking tentatively, "You're okay for the Exhibition, right? Yakov was sure you'd be upset."

 

Victor's hand stills against the book, blinking slow at it before turning his gaze back to Yuuri. There isn't a pout visible on his face anywhere, but considering Victor's spent so much of his life in front of an audience there's no surefire way to tell if he's as confused as his expression implies or if he's that good at misdirection. With him, it could easily go either way.

 

"What's there to be upset about?" Victor answers, and Yuuri wonders if he's imagining the caution he's hearing in Victor's tone. "Chris did well, though I do understand his frustration that the press keeps trying to insist that he didn't rightfully earn his place yesterday, or that I was toying with everyone for some reason."

 

"Still," Yuuri insists, feeling his brow furrow. "Yakov was saying that he's starting to think that those programs are cursed or something, because nothing good ever happens when you skate _Gatekeeper_ or _Glory_."

 

The laugh Victor makes at that is noticeably hollow. "Him and so many others. There's nothing wrong with the scores though. It's exciting, having things shaken up like this after so long." A pause. "That doesn't sound right, but I don't know how else to put it."

 

Yuuri sighs. "People were worried. If things had gone just a little differently…"

 

Victor hums. "It _has_ been a long time since I've touched down on a quad like that, true. I wonder how many heart problems I caused with that little slip-up?"

 

" _Victor_."

 

"I really am fine, Yuuri," Victor insists, looking up at him with a wry fondness. "The fact I still made the podium is more surprising than anything."

 

"People keep correcting themselves," Yuuri explains. "They're so used to you winning gold in all your competitions that they don't know what to do with your first silver in years. Apparently there was a fight at a bar downtown over it?"

 

Victor sighs and pulls Yuuri down into the armchair with him. It takes a little finagling after his initial resistance, but Yuuri eventually settles in next to Victor, half on the seat and legs tangling together for lack of space. Judging by his expression, Yuuri figures Victor's way too pleased about this.

 

They stay like that a while, watching the sun crawl higher above the horizon. Victor rests his cheek on Yuuri's hair, the arm around him loose and relaxed.

 

"You really should head down to morning practice," Yuuri says eventually. Victor grumbles, nuzzling him.

 

"After I've had my Yuuri time," he answers with a small whine.

 

"You'll have plenty of that later," Yuuri manages with as straight a face as he can in these circumstances. It helps to think of the deep scowl Yakov had on before he shooed Yuuri out to fetch Victor. "Come on, if you're late I get yelled at, too."

 

Victor huffs a laugh. "We can't have that, can we?"

 

Neither of them move, let alone bother to make an attempt at one.

 

"Well, I guess we're both getting yelled at later," Victor says nonchalantly. Yuuri has to bite his cheek to keep the smile off his face, though it doesn't really help.

 

"Are you sure that you're going to be okay out there today?" he can't help but ask again. "Your sponsors are one thing, but the reporters and fans can be a lot harder to calm down."

 

Victor sighs, loud and heavy. "People follow my career for a number of reasons, though I won't deny that the past five years hasn't influenced many of them. Winning is secondary to a perfect performance for me, it always has been. They just ended up going hand-in-hand, so that's what I kept aiming for."

 

"And now?" Yuuri can't help but ask.

 

Victor falls quiet, that odd look of contemplation flickering across his face again. He stays that way for longer than Yuuri would expect, the grip he has around Yuuri's shoulders tightening just barely.

 

"Old habits are hard to break," Victor eventually admits, voice subdued. "But I can't let a simple thing like that stop me, can I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If anyone has an issue with "Yuka" please tell me, I just grabbed it off the list on [this site](http://www.doukhobor.org/Russian-Masculine-Names.html) and it looked less rude compared to the other alternatives when I tried to cross-reference them with what rules I could find re: diminutives.  
> \- Missing scenes that definitely still happened: Chris teasing Yuri and nearly getting elbowed in the process. Victor's EX that I ultimately cut because I couldn't decide on a known song or making something up again. Poetry reading, I guess? (All those poems are mostly very sappy and flowery so)
> 
> Also I have a Twitter now for those who are inclined. ([@chaicicle](https://twitter.com/chaicicle))


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY THIS TOOK AGES
> 
> So multiple rewrites, numerous edits, and a very annoying flare-up of my shitty health later, this is finally done?
> 
> Also, I have kept silent on this for the most part, but in light of all this radio silence I only feel this is fair: I have a neurological condition called Essential Tremor, which means that fine motor skills like typing are sometimes hell to do because... well, Victor's first email in this is mostly unedited. ;;; And recently I've gotten worse so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I'm mostly mentioning this because I've had a few comments pop up in my inbox expressing some concern and I felt bad about being so quiet?
> 
> That being said, you know the beach scene where Yuuri's all "hey so I did a kind of shitty thing because it felt like I was being pitied and I hated that"? Please don't comment and make it all about what I've said about my health. I've lived with this condition for 7 years and nothing grates at me more than being coddled over it. I'm sharing this as an explanation, not an excuse. I don't mind sharing more if you want to know, but writing helps me maintain what fine motor skills I still have and my sense of perfectionism means I'm not going to be satisfied with what I put out without a lot of editing and proofing. ~~That being said, I did have to resort to speech recognition software for about ~2500 words so WHAT IS PROGRESS. WHO KNOWS.~~

[Snippet from an email exchange between **Victor Nikiforov (vxnikiforv@eletter.co.ru)** and **Theodora Demetriou (theo.deme@mousai.net)** , starting December 16, 2015 and ending February 3, 2016.]

 

**vxnikiforv** 16/12/2015

tTheo my goodfreond!!

EX ppiece needed by EUors4 my yuuri ❤ MSUTS use Nikiforov thies time okk?? balbulya is meaan but ill talj to her! gnrad pianoe and maby hapr?? soem woednwifnds i gese? whaewts hte big romanatioc periosds instureomst??

I neeed to showw mly LOVE for the worlsd to see ❤ leijk he didee foer meeee ❤❤❤

 

**theo.deme** 16/12/2015

……Is this going to be a thing now Victor? You commissioning me piss drunk both literally and figuratively?

Because if it is I'm going to have to start charging extra.

 

**vxnikiforv** 17/12/2015

That was once. Once! I am a happily engaged man now, thank you!

 

\- [47] ----

 

* * *

 

There have been many conversations Victor had overheard in his first few months in Hasetsu, more than he can begin to count. He's sure most of them were about him, from the way eyes would flick in his direction before staunchly continuing on in too-quick Japanese so different from the dialect used in guides.

 

He still remembers the way Mari refused to call him by name for the first week or so when out of Yuuri's earshot, though despite his suspicions Victor has yet to get a proper explanation for why she called him _Poster Man_ instead. He remembers the pinch in Hiroko's brows as she tried to bridge the language gap with her limited English learned from years of overhearing tourists and her own children, a contrast to Toshiya's attempts at blundering through it with little to no pause to Mari and Yuuri's combined embarrassment. Minako and the Nishigori family were more formal, speaking slower and clearer with him when they did speak in their native tongue but still leaving him blinking in confusion when their attention turned elsewhere.

 

He remembers it as clearly as he does now because it seems he's on the other side of the mirror these days, watching as Yuuri squints defiantly at his phone's screen and the robotic mimicry of a middle-aged man from Moscow from it insists that he cannot say 'I want to take a walk in the park' correctly for the life of him. It's been a long five minutes and counting so far. Victor's not entirely sure why Yuuri just doesn't skip and move on, but then again this is the same man who insisted on spending three hours solely on quad drills for a week straight while they waited for his free skate music to come in, and even that had to be negotiated down to that point.

 

What's more entertaining, though, is the small crowd of Novices hiding behind the doors to the break room, hissing at each other to not give their location away lest they get caught spying again. If Victor remembers correctly, this particular group's been tailing after Yuuri for several weeks now, too shy to approach him directly but too curious to leave him be. Their coach hasn't been nearly as amused by their distraction, much less Lilia and her huffing about a boy who keeps sneaking past security to join them somehow.

 

"They'd be behaving properly if you never left," the Novices' coach has groused at him more than once. "I've been fending off questions about you all year because of that pretty boy, and it's worse now that you've brought him back with you!"

 

Yakov's only inclusion in this is a muttered complaint that he's too old and tired to keep fighting Nikiforovs on everything, and that it's Victor and Coach Aliona's problem to deal with.

 

Part of the problem, Victor's sure, is that the children are about as confident in their English as Yuuri is in his Russian. Though he'd argue otherwise, Yuuri is intimidating to them for his age, experience, and skill. That he's trained in more rinks than they've ever stepped foot in, that he's circled the globe in search of ways to further advance his career for longer than a number of them have been alive?

 

Even though Victor is a national hero, he's a staple in the lives of these young children who use the center -- enough to apparently upset them when he abruptly packed his things for Japan. It's Yuuri who comes off as more of a mythical, otherworldly being to them. The scandal-hungry news stories and rumors probably haven't helped matters, if even grown adults were occasionally giving Yuuri nervous side-glances like they actually believed he could magically enchant and beguile everyone in the room if eye contact is made. Even if he is lovely enough for someone less aware of his fire-bright determination and core of steel to mistake it as flickering candlelight and silver filigree. Victor knows better than most that it's almost too easy getting people to follow a misdirection, and Yuuri's such a natural at it he's even fooled himself more than once.

 

Yuuri is still fighting with the app, which seems to have given up before he has and is trying to force him to skip ahead. Either that, or Yuuri's finally managed something close enough to an average Moscow man shuffling home from work in the midst of his frustrated grumbling and isn't having it. It's more fun to believe the former; man rarely beats machine, and if anyone's stubborn enough to try, it's Yuuri.

 

Behind them, still hissing at each other to be quieter, the Novices are apparently now trying to sneak inside. Victor wishes them luck in their personal mission to spend a moment with Yuuri, brief as it may be.

 

"That really enforces textbook-perfect pronunciation, doesn't it?" Victor can't help but remark. The program makes another attempt to urge Yuuri to continue forward and Yuuri groans, listing to slump into Victor's side under his arm.

 

"It's rude, is what it is," Yuuri huffs into the collar of his jacket, hunched up as he is as he glowers down at his phone. Victor tries not to laugh as he reaches up to smooth down Yuuri's flyaways. "I don't even know what happened! Did I do something differently that time, or was it just not picking it up?"

 

Victor hums noncommittally. "Who knows," he says. And then, because he can't resist pointing it out: "You do know you've been pronouncing it correctly for the past few minutes regardless, yes? That thing is just very insistent on using Standard."

 

Out of sight, the Novices stop and giggle amongst themselves as Yuuri whips around to look at him and his face goes through a quick succession of expressions, from stunned to disbelieving to indignant and everything in between. Victor smiles, blinking innocently as Yuuri squints at him with flushed cheeks and a pinched brow.

 

"...You're lucky you're cute."

 

Victor's smile widens to a grin. To think, this adorable man nearly slipped through his fingers so many times.

 

"There are more practical ways of going about this, you know," Victor offers, pressing his cheek to Yuuri's hair as he watches Yuuri return his attention to his phone. "You _are_ immersed in the language, after all, even if we generally speak English with you."

 

Yuuri sighs. "Is it enough, though? I still can't do much of anything without having to look at my phone first, and it's been nearly two months."

 

Victor pauses, a little thrown, before huffing at Yuuri disbelievingly. "Yuuri, no one expects you to be _fluent_ in two months, especially with our schedules. I'm certainly not fluent in Japanese, and I'd lived there with you for eight!"

 

Well, that certainly explains the faces Yuuri keeps making at his phone at least; he's being just as hard on himself with this as he is in about everything else. Honestly, the expectations he puts on his shoulders are borderline ridiculous sometimes.

 

"Still," Yuuri protests, and that's about all he gets out before there's a squeal and a small body skidding into view on the floor in front of them. Even half expecting the interruption, Victor can't help but blink as the other hiding Novices promptly start hushing each other and the child who'd either slipped spectacularly or was pushed forward freezes and looks up at him and Yuuri with wide, round eyes.

 

Yuuri, flabbergasted, looks at Victor. Victor shrugs in silent answer.

 

The boy manages to scramble to a sit, legs crossed and back straight despite his bright red face. A deep breath, freckled cheeks puffed, and, "Yuri Katsuki! Misha wants to know if you can teach him spins--"

 

"I do _not_!" comes an immediate response from behind the couch. Yuuri jumps, whipping around to look over the arm of the break room's couch blocking the door just as another Novice boy jolts up with a pinched face and a noticeable missing tooth. "Petro lies, Yuri Katsuki! That is Sonya! I want to know Axel!"

 

"Stop being dumb!" a girl with a braided bun snaps, trying to shove the boy aside. He clings to the couch and sticks his tongue out at her. "Yuri Katsuki, teach me ballet! The man Victor likes _must_ be better than other teachers here!"

 

Yuuri stares at them, clutching his phone to his chest.

 

"I'm worse than I thought," he hears Yuuri mutter under his breath. "There's no way-- I'm not...?"

 

Victor can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him. "You really are bad with fans, aren't you?"

 

Yuuri gives him a plaintive look. Amused, Victor squeezes Yuuri's shoulder and gestures with a lean of his head to the hopeful-looking Novices waiting for Yuuri's response.

 

"Proper practice, Yuuri," he chirps. "They can't be much different from the triplets or Yurio, right?"

 

"I can actually _talk_ to them," Yuuri mutters.

 

" _I_ can guarantee you'll get more useful feedback about what you're saying from them than that program," Victor tells him without missing a beat. "Children are notorious for lacking filters, I hear."

 

Yuuri almost snorts a laugh, probably remembering how blunt all four of the kids Victor's mentioned (though Yuri will not appreciate being lumped in with the triplets; he _is_ at that age where he wants to be treated like an adult, after all) tend to be.

 

The Novices squirm in place, their nerves starting to overtake their hope. Victor feels Yuuri wince, then slump in defeat.

 

"Okay," he finally relents, carefully slow in his wispy Russian, and all three of them immediately perk up again. "I will try to help. Will you help me, too?"

 

In what seems like a blink, the three Novices are suddenly gathered in front of Yuuri and trying to pull him to his feet, all chattering excitedly and talking over each other so fast even Victor can't keep up. He stares in bemusement as Yuuri squeaks and finds himself getting dragged up and towards the door of the break room.

 

"I guess you're starting now," Victor calls after him, a smile creeping onto his face. "I'll meet you at the rink in a bit to supervise!"

 

He thinks he hears Yuuri mutter something along the lines of, 'the college kids weren't nearly this hyper,' but it's hard to tell.

 

As he waves after them, he debates contacting the Novices' coach to let her know the good news but decides against it. That would only get Yakov involved, and as entertaining as it is to watch the old man fume over silly things it's not really important enough for him to be invested.

 

Yuri's head pops into the break room not a moment later with a disbelieving expression that almost seems concerned. "Hey, old man. Did you know Coach Aliona's brats are stealing Katsudon? Because I'm pretty sure they're gonna eat him alive if you let 'em."

 

Other people, however, are a very different story.

 

* * *

 

[Snippet from an email exchange between **Victor Nikiforov (vxnikiforv@eletter.co.ru)** and **Theodora Demetriou (theo.deme@mousai.net)** , starting from December 16, 2015 and ending February 3, 2016.]

 

-[9]----

 

**theo.deme** 28/12/15

Violin and piano are essential because they're signature for both of you at this point in your careers, got it.

Since you want to focus on Romantic Period instruments, we could try a celesta? I know you're not crazy about them because everyone hears it and immediately thinks of "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies", but they do have a nice music-box tone that could fit the mood you're going for.

 

**vxnikiforv** 30/12/15

Send me a sample and I'll decide once Yakov does his holiday grump act.

 

**theo.deme** 1/1/16 -- ATT: celesta.mp4

Surprisingly, getting access to a celesta is easier than getting access to a pipe organ. I am going to have some slight issues with the harp, though, if you're still interested in keeping that in. It might work better if we shuffle it back into percussion.

Also, for the love of all things good in the world, DO NOT REPLY DRUNK AGAIN. You are INSUFFERABLE when you are drunk and I don't know how you haven't scared off that boy of yours!

Happy New Year from me and Gavriil! Hope this year is as good for you as last year!

 

P.S.: Your coach still pretends that he has no idea how everyone keeps getting the same rest day during the holidays? Really?

 

-[38]----

 

* * *

 

" _Yuu_ -riiii!"

 

It's their only warning beyond a handful of strangled shouts before Phichit skids to a stop right in front of them, but momentum and the entourage of younger skaters behind him -- Leo, Guanghong, and a face Victor doesn't recognize from the Grand Prix circuit -- is more than enough to bowl him over and take Yuuri down with him.

 

Victor wonders briefly, as he lifts up his sunglasses and blinks down at the tangle of groaning limbs next to him in their hotel hall in Taipei, why no one ever greets him like that. He then tries to imagine Chris doing that, the first thought coming to mind of Chris sauntering up to the pool in Barcelona in nothing but a silk bathrobe and a speedo, and silently accepts the fact that Phichit is likely a special case.

 

Guanghong scrambles up first with his mouth running apologies and tugging a quieter but just as flustered Leo to his feet. Phichit only offers a brief apology after dusting Yuuri off and just as quickly starts chattering away much like he does on the phone, seamless from one topic to the next. The new face looks at them dazed, torn between bemused at the company he arrived with and star-struck with Yuuri and Victor both.

 

Of course, Victor manages to tune back in just as Phichit says, "What're you gonna do, beat everyone off with your sports bag?" that leaves him blinking bewilderedly, even when Yuuri whines and reaches back over to slip his hand around Victor's arm and pull it to his chest, as if using him as a shield. The other three snort in amusement, which doesn't help at all.

 

"Dare I ask?" he tries, and Yuuri stiffens and shoots him nervous side-glances between a flash of a scowl at the younger skaters.

 

"We were telling Yuuri that there's a lot more media here than usual," Guanghong explains, a faint stammer in his voice. Hm. Perhaps Cao Bin's successor is still a bit shy around him.

 

Leo continues, "This is your first time coming to a 4CC competition, after all. Everyone's excited!"

 

"And especially because you're here as a coach and not a guest," the unfamiliar face says with a weak smile. "Many of us have been dying for a chance to actually meet Victor Nikiforov, and hope they can catch your attention like Yuuri did."

 

Yuuri makes a strangled squeak and Phichit starts snickering. Victor smiles, laughing to himself when he thinks for reasons why Yuuri would take offense to that.

 

"This season's been far more interesting because of it, though," he admits. Of course, Victor is weak and can't help but add with a fond aside glance to Yuuri, "I don't regret a moment of it."

 

"You," Yuuri immediately retorts, turning to look up at Victor with a knit in his brow and a slight uptick of an equally fond smile, "are going to make things worse, saying things like that."

 

"Worse," Victor returns in kind, raising his own brow as he smiles down at Yuuri, "or better?"

 

The click of a phone camera interrupts them, and Yuuri automatically groans and makes a shooing gesture towards Phichit.

 

"Don't you shoo me off," Phichit laughs, not the least bit offended. "You're the one blocking the hall with all your lovey-dovey-ness!"

 

"And you're the one taking pictures of it," Yuuri deadpans at him. "At least warn me before you do that!"

 

"But it's _better_ if it's candid!" Phichit whines, the ease of it sounding like it's an old argument between them. "I bet Victor agrees with me! Right?"

 

"Absolutely," Victor says as Yuuri gripes, "Don't use him against me!" It earns Victor an annoyed look, which he smiles at before pressing a kiss to Yuuri's crown. There's a faint click and snap of a phone camera going off, the small crowd of young skaters snickering at the pout Victor feels pressed to his collar.

 

"I thought we agreed kissing isn't how we solve problems," Yuuri huffs.

 

"There's bound to be a practical application for it somewhere," is Victor's excuse. There's a quickly muffled snort among the younger skaters, though Victor can't parse who.

 

("Are they always...?" asks the South African skater, his mouth twitching from the effort to not laugh at the way the couple in front of them act like his parents when they think they're alone.

 

"Like that? Yes," Guanghong answers immediately, face flushing. "They were cuddling like that in Beijing when Leo was doing his short program, too."

 

Leo nods. "It's sweet, but they do get... out of hand a lot? Never took either of them as the type, honestly..."

 

"Yuuri made care packages for his dog on a regular basis and I got way too many breakdowns of how doting Victor is with his every time he posted something," Phichit huffs. "Believe me, they were _always_ the type!")

 

It's probably silly, considering the fact they're both independent adults who have poured more of their lives into their careers than most, but Victor still finds himself unwilling to pull himself away from Yuuri just yet even if they are blocking the hall and still need to go to lunch. The last time they'd had a full afternoon to themselves was weeks ago, rest days staggered to make up for Victor's inattention leading up to Europeans and a scant few date nights that were mostly just using each other as a pillow as they attempted to avoid drifting off on the couch.

 

But it's fine. It's a sacrifice that's necessary for their future together, and Victor isn't about to dishonor the promises he made Yuuri and himself months ago even for a moment of weakness. Even if he finds himself lingering around the outside of the venue when they pass it on the way to dinner, attention caught by the wedding shop right inside the hall to the main lobby. They haven't had time yet to do more than briefly discuss preferences, but it's not as if Victor has much to share by way of traditions, not like Yuuri and his closely-knit family.

 

It's fine. If it has to be between Yuuri's work-laden but adoring family and Victor's bitter old grandmother, then he'll choose Yuuri every time. Besides, she made it clear years ago she would not pick sides, and so Victor has no reason to believe she'll willingly put herself through a long and arduous flight to Japan for his sake. It will just have to be another incident in a long list of his apparent inability to prioritize what she thinks matters most.

 

It's fine. It's not as if this will be the first time he's disappointed her. She's tougher than most; she can take it just fine.

 

He pushes aside the suspicion and wariness at the radio silence over the past several weeks slowly taking root, how eerily familiar it comes off. Yuuri needs him, and Victor refuses to let himself be as helpless as he's been in the past.

 

It's fine.

 

* * *

 

[Snippet from an email exchange between **Victor Nikiforov (vxnikiforv@eletter.co.ru)** and **Theodora Demetriou (theo.deme@mousai.net)** , starting from December 16, 2015 and ending February 3, 2016.]

 

-[22]----

 

**vxnikiforv** 12/1/16

You think you're so clever using the "On Love" melody as a leitmotif to open the second half, don't you?

 

**theo.deme** 12/1/16

Need I remind you that I still have that "So That's Why!" mural I am collecting screenshots for to present to you on your wedding day? Because it's turning out great thanks to your insistence on color-coordinating yourself with your muse.

 

**vxnikiforv** 13/1/16

I am rescinding your wedding invitation.

 

**theo.deme** 13/1/16

Unfortunately for you, my son still needs a chaperone.

 

**vxnikiforv** 16/1/16

Perhaps this is a bit late for a change, but since we're already behind schedule for getting this finished I have a question.

Right before the start of the violin solo, when the celesta goes in minor key-- could you make that a higher octave? Twinkling stars about to shoot down across the night sky sort of impression?

 

**theo.deme** 18/1/16

Victor, are you okay?

I've been teasing you a lot, but the last time you gave me "impressions" of that visual degree you were trying to both forget and immortalize the best night you'd had in a long time. And what you described, unlike last year, doesn't sound too happy.

 

-[22]----

 

* * *

 

"You're going to have to come out of there sooner or later, you know."

 

Riding the high from the Grand Prix's silver and Nationals' gold, Yuuri comes in strong when Four Continents properly starts and maintains a solid position in the top five through the short program, even with Phichit changing up some of his elements to make up for the large gap in technical points, the Leroy boy determined to make up for his meltdown in Barcelona, Otabek steadily and stoically trying to improve his expression, and the myriad of skilled and talented others fighting for a spot on the podium with more fervor than Victor's used to seeing.

 

He supposes that knowing he can never stand on that podium means the skaters here are a lot more fired up to actually aim for gold instead of second-best.

 

All this said, Yuuri still cannot handle the press eagerly trying to get him to share his thoughts on training in Russia, how he's settling in, questions Victor's been assured are perfectly normal for a skater who changes rinks and coaches for any reason. Not to mention the skaters from other disciplines -- Women's, Ice Dance, even Pairs -- who keep poking their heads around corners in hopes of spotting the two of them, brightening and giggling as they quickly snap photos before disappearing.

 

Phichit explains it as a running gag Yuuri's given up trying to understand. Something about deer?

 

("Yuuri's kind of like a-- what's Bambi again, Ciao Ciao? I know he's a deer, but with the...?" He waggles his fingers over his head. Celestino sighs and answers him. "A stag! Right! So he's graceful and pretty and everything, but they see the horns--"

 

"They're antlers, Phichit."

 

"--and go, huh, I should probably stay away and not startle him. So they try to take nice shots of him from a safe distance! Deer watching!"

 

"I see," Victor tells him. He doesn't tell him he has no idea what Bambi is or how it relates to deer, though he makes a note to look it up when he hears multiple people refer to Yuuri by that nickname. A pop culture reference he's missed, maybe?)

 

Yuuri hiding is enough of a problem. It's _where_ Yuuri's decided to hide that's more of an issue this time around.

 

"Nope," Yuuri insists, voice muffled in Victor's collar. "I live here now. See you when the free starts."

 

Idly, Victor reminds himself that a little over a year ago, Yuuri had skittered away with a gentle touch and a heated look. Now Yuuri is clinging to his waist, tucked into the space between his legs and buried under the lapels of his coat. The same befuddled amusement flits through him, and he obligingly pats Yuuri's back.

 

Lowering his head and pressing his nose against the shell of Yuuri's ear, his fringe falling from its tucked-in place to obscure their faces even more, is enough for most of the people still attempting to stare at the two of them to blush and look away. Victor uses this flaunt of casual intimacy to murmur, low, "You have managed some unbelievable feats in our time together, darling, but I have to say that this bad habit of yours remains one of the more unbelievable ones."

 

"If I wanted to talk to people this much, I would've stayed at the inn," Yuuri whines. "I am not worth all this attention just because I'm training in the same rink as you!"

 

" _Yuu-_ ri." Victor glances up, catching a faint squeak and a small click from the other side of the lobby. "Need I remind you of the fact you have the world record right now for the free? And if you perform half as well here tonight, you stand a solid chance of challenging my total score record, too?"

 

He feels more than hears Yuuri scoff at that. He's half tempted to pinch _something_ for that sass, but with so many cameras around someone is bound to misinterpret it. He can already see Yakov's steaming, near-purple face in his mind's eye, sputtering and livid as he shakes some gossip rag at Victor and rants again about public image, wondering aloud how he only ever hears accusations of looking like a deviant about Victor and no one else. It's not _Victor's_ fault everyone else's mind is in the gutter when half his dates over the years have been simple dinner meetings with sponsors, one-on-one affairs to keep them on their toes and lax about contracts.

 

Yuuri stays quiet after that, gentle fingertips picking at the back of Victor's waistcoat and fiddling with the metal clasp of the cinch. This doesn't seem like the nervous nibbling Yuuri's prone to when he's particularly agitated; no, as familiar as it seems, as much as it tickles at something in his memory, it's a completely different tic Victor is sure he's seen before. But where?

 

"This won't count," Yuuri says finally, still refusing to look up. "Gold here would be great, but it's not good enough."

 

Victor blinks, unsure where Yuuri intends to go with this. Unless he's truly that spooked by all the attention now that he's proven he's more than capable enough to secure a spot on the podium, there's no reason for him to be this insistent with technicalities.

 

"What's good enough to you, then?" he asks. Yuuri's mind is a tricky thing, full of twists and turns that make it far too easy to lose one's sense of direction. It's better, he's learned, to simply let Yuuri write the definitions and for Victor to interpret them in a way that can work for both of them.

 

Yuuri's grip on his waistcoat belt tightens. "Nationals was only Japan. Here, it'll pretty much be half the world. If... if getting gold means proving to everyone I've earned the right to keep you, shouldn't you at least have the chance to test me, too?"

 

Victor stares as Yuuri finally lifts his head enough to have their eyes meet, Yuuri's wide and earnest even with his face coloring pink at his own words. He wonders if Yuuri can feel the way his pulse soars, as close as he's still pressed to Victor's chest despite the layers of cloth separating them.

 

The conference, Victor recalls distantly, reminding himself this is neither the time nor place to be swooning like a schoolboy. Yuuri had this sort of agitated, muted confidence when he presented his theme at the conference back in September, when he finally mustered up the courage to admit to what, until then, the two of them were willing to leave unsaid. It comes back with a vengeance every time he feels the need to prove himself, every time he sees people challenge their relationship or someone has the gall to speak ill of either of them, more so if it's about Victor instead of him. For it to rear its head now, of all times...

 

Despite his endeared fluttering a moment ago, he has to know: "What's brought this on? We have a deal, you know, and I'm holding you to it."

 

"Nothing," Yuuri insists. "I just... Since you're back, I want that to be what makes it count. It won't feel right otherwise."

 

"Are you sure?" Victor asks, raising a brow at him. "I am still the World Champion, you know. This sounds like a direct challenge."

 

"You said before that you wanted me to get out of warm-up mode," Yuuri tells him. "And I want a do-over, to make up for what happened at Sochi."

 

Victor makes a small sound of disapproval, pressing his lips together. Now he's starting to understand. "Yuuri."

 

"I know," Yuuri insists, shaking his head to hide the downturn of his eyes. "But it wasn't just... what happened. It was a lot of things going wrong at once. I want this to be when everything goes _right_. Does that makes sense?"

 

_Of course_ are the first words that come to Victor's head, but they stop before they can touch his lips. He remembers the car park, soft words of encouragement brushed aside after a night of tense quiet, a faint note of pity he's sure Yuuri never meant but stung all the sharper for it their first night together in St. Petersburg. He remembers Lilia's disapproval of his apparent new weaknesses, Yakov's tired allowances and attempts to rein his wilder nature in, Yuri's cold disappointment and coal-bright anger due to a forgotten promise, a soft-spoken plea to wear no masks when it was just the two of them. He remembers reluctant support from what should have been a source of confidence, unasked for and unfiltered and yet distilled into blandness that meant nothing in the end.

 

"It does," Victor says instead. Yuuri, more than anything, is the sort of person who needs and wants to earn his place so it feels deserved; that stubborn pride, above all else, is how Victor knows he doesn't coddle him like he's been accused. Yuuri would never let him get away with it. "That being said, I still expect an international gold from you sometime this season, Yuuri."

 

And Yuuri laughs, low and a little wry in tone, "I'm pretty sure if JJ places higher than me again, Yurio's either never going to let me back in the rink or he's never going to let me _leave_."

 

Victor laughs as well, shaking his head. "To be fair, Yurio won't be happy until you-- ah, what did he say before? 'Kick me off my high horse so he can have real competition for gold'?"

 

Yuuri's dry amusement cuts off with a sputter and a choke. "What. There's no-- Wait, our Yurio said that? When?!"

 

Perhaps it's a little petty, perhaps Victor should be more mature than to go around telling all of Yuri's dirty little fanboy secrets. But no one who's ever known Victor's accused him of being mature, and if the brat thinks one gold medal's given him the right to act like he's too good for basic respect, then Victor sees no reason to play nice. After all--

 

("Seriously?" Yuri had pushed in their shared hotel room in Slovakia, just like he tends to keep pushing just because Yakov still thinks there's hope for his attitude left. "You get on my case about the fact I give my mom a hard time for giving up _everything_ for that shithead who knocked her up, and yet you're stupid enough to let _this_ happen?"

 

Refusing to be baited, Victor responded, "That's a horrible way to refer to your father."

 

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" Yuri had spat at him before marching for the door, not bothering to look and see how true an aim his words held.)

 

\--There are only so many copies of his father's sole published book in the world, and no matter what happened between them even Victor can respect the effort put into it.

 

* * *

 

[Snippet from an email exchange between **Victor Nikiforov (vxnikiforv@eletter.co.ru)** and **Theodora Demetriou (theo.deme@mousai.net)** , starting from December 16, 2015 and ending February 3, 2016.]

 

-[48]----

 

**vxnikiforv** 3/2/16

Thank you for your time and effort, Theo. You'll have your payment wired to you by noon tomorrow.

 

**theo.deme** 3/2/16

It's always a pleasure working with you, Victor. And a headache, but it's not a piece for you if it isn't challenging in some way!

And Victor? I don't know what your situation is right now, but please remember you don't have to go it alone. We don't get to interact much because of work, but I do like to think of us as friends. If you want to message me just to talk, my inbox is always open to you.

 

**vxnikiforv** \-- DRAFT saved at 19:33 PM MSK

were you joking about th|

 

* * *

 

Yuuri -- barely, still far too close despite the Leroy boy's efforts to capitalize on his higher technical score and louder fanbase not being enough to tip the judges' final scores in his favor -- returns to St. Petersburg stunned speechless with a proper gold medal around his neck and to a larger collection of starry-eyed Novices all scrambling over each other to congratulate him first. Honestly, Victor's not sure which confuses Yuuri more.

 

With the floodgates open, the sight of Yuuri being dragged along the halls of the center by at least two different children in any given direction becomes a common one, enough that Victor starts getting teased between sessions that he's going to come home to find a gaggle of them in his and Yuuri's apartment one day, turning the same sort of sad, soulful eyes Maccachin's perfected in his old age to him in an effort to not be kicked out. Yakov gets surprisingly defensive whenever someone tries saying it around him. Victor suspects there might be more than a clash of personalities behind his and Lilia's split, knowing they've never had a single child between them between their dedication to their respective careers and their ages by the time that could no longer be an excuse.

 

Then again, Victor and Georgi have suspected that for years. It's nothing new, even if Mila jokes about how this past year, with Yuri bringing them together again under Lilia's roof, is the longest and warmest that they've been to each other in years.

 

Still, Victor can see the potential in Yuuri and understands the teasing, though from what he's managed to glean from Yuuri's bi-weekly calls home he opts against sharing the details of what is everyone's new favorite topic to tease them about. Even then it's never serious, never more than a certain look and an upwards curl and curve of features, sometimes accompanied by the lilt of a rising hum and sometimes a flash of teeth and a tremolo of eyebrows. Lacking the necessary parts to make such a thing happen organically doesn't dissuade those poking fun at them, apparently.

 

Victor can't blame them, not really. It's only been a little over a week since that first incident and he's had to bite his own tongue in regards to treating the Novices for their attentiveness and hard work the way he recalls when he'd been their age more times than he'd care to admit. The phantom sweetness and weight of the plush-soft treat, no matter how much or how loudly Yakov complained about it when they were caught, is something he hasn't allowed himself to indulge in for over a decade yet it's always one of the first things that comes to mind.

 

It'd been easy to ignore it in Japan, where he knew he'd never find anything just like it; maybe something similar, if he looked hard enough, but never the exact same. He'd relished that, enjoying the new experiences for what they were.

 

As it stands now, these new experiences for Yuuri have him more drained than usual when they return home. It feels as if Yuuri's famed endurance has finally found its peak and the Novices are exploiting it to their hearts' content, leaving Victor to walk out the room one minute and peer in the next to ask a question, only to find Yuuri already half-dozing in the last position Victor saw him in. Amusing as it is at times, it does leave Victor wondering if the little ones really are too much for him to handle at once.

 

Tonight is no different, and Victor debates letting Yuuri recharge with a throw blanket and a curious Maccachin trying to find a spot on the couch with him, or waking him so Yuuri doesn't spend any _more_ time up and alert at hours he really should be asleep.

 

Maccachin, ever the helpful companion, makes the decision for him by way of draping over Yuuri's back and pinning him down, watching Victor with large, innocent eyes and a faint wag of his tail. Even if Yuuri is still awake through this, he won't want to move and risk upsetting Maccachin, which leaves him no other choice _but_ napping until dinner. It does force Yuuri into a position to rest and relax, at least. Victor can't be that upset by it.

 

Still, he does actually _want_ to spend time with Yuuri, especially since they have a shared free day tomorrow and it'd be nice to actually head out and see the town together.

 

"Yuuri?" he tries. He's pleasantly surprised by the answering, if muffled, hum from the couch. "So you are still awake in there."

 

There's a faint wave from Yuuri's free hand along the back of the couch. Maccachin huffs and starts to nose it until Yuuri's fingers are laced through his curls.

 

"I see how it is," Victor laughs, reaching over to scratch at Maccachin's scruff. "Yuuri's yours for the evening, and I get him all tomorrow, then?"

 

"Do I get any say in this?" he hears Yuuri mutter through the couch's pillows.

 

"Not according to Maccachin."

 

Yuuri sighs. "Fair enough."

 

At least they're in the study, so Victor can pull down something from the shelf to entertain himself until it's time to start preparing dinner. And since that's an option: "Would you like me to read something?"

 

"If you want," is the response he gets, an apologetic tone to it.

 

There's an odd sense of nostalgia when Victor walks around the couch towards the shelf; they've never done this, yet it comes as easy to him as anything else they have. He wonders if this is something he's seen, then, something he's kept in the back of his mind for safekeeping.

 

His fingertip runs over the spines of his collection, trying to decide which would be easiest for Yuuri to understand. Nothing novel-length, nothing with complex or convoluted plot that would be hard to follow... Perhaps poetry, then? As long as it's not overly complex or flowery, it should be easy enough for Yuuri to follow along, if not comfortably drift off.

 

He almost doesn't notice it when he pauses over a familiar blue cover, but he does notice the rustle of paper that brushes over his knuckles. He blinks, frowning as he tries to remember when he'd left something of that sort on his bookshelf, and pulls it out to inspect closer.

 

_To Zvyezdochka,_

_From your Papka_

 

Right. That damned letter. He remembers now.

 

His father's handwriting jumps out at him, shaky and splotchy compared to its former looping and thin strokes. If nothing else, his father had enviable penmanship, and seeing how far it'd deteriorated towards the end is unsettling in its own ways.

 

More than that, the instinctive push towards reading to Yuuri also makes sense now. His father used to do the same, on his late mother's birthday and on the anniversary of her death. He'd asked his grandmother once, and she'd only sighed and ushered Victor away. It was only through his own observations, spying when his grandmother was busy elsewhere, that he'd see his father's whole ritual of bringing a bouquet of wildflowers to the side of the bed he never slept, fluffing the pillows, and taking a seat as he spoke in low, sweet tones to someone long gone.

 

Victor's grandmother has made it clear she doesn't approve of dwelling on the past, or mourning those lost to it. He can guess the reasons why -- one doesn't live through a war without losing something of irreplaceable value -- but he also knows his father had always been of softer heart. If he were still around...

 

Damn. This is why Victor wanted to burn the thing when he came home that first night. He may never be as sharply pragmatic as his grandmother, but he's nowhere near as weak and maudlin as his father.

 

A little soured, Victor glances over his shoulder to where Yuuri still is. He's still pinned, Maccachin sighing fitfully over him with a faintly wagging tip of his tail and twitching paws. Yuuri might still be awake, and if he is he's going to pick up on Victor's shift in mood. He doesn't want to ruin their short respite, not with this of all things.

 

He can still get rid of it. All he has to do is remove whatever it is that's weighing the envelope down and leave the papers a little too close to the range when he prepares evening tea. It'll catch, smoke and scorch a bit, and Victor will have every excuse to toss it. All reprimands will be about needing to be more careful, not paying enough attention -- not for still holding a decade-long grudge against a man who died eight years ago, who apparently couldn't even be bothered to give this damned letter to Victor himself when he knew he was running out of time. No one would know the difference.

 

No one, except the two people who know Victor well enough to know he'd never make a mistake like that. Who, coincidentally, are the only two besides Georgi who know about the letter.

 

He shouldn't read it, not yet. Worlds is a month away, and he knows all too well that no one will accept anything less than Victor's best. He has to redeem himself after that silver, has to prove to Yuuri that if he does win gold it will be because he fought for it tooth and nail and not because Victor allowed him to. Victor may not get distracted and spiral like Yuuri tends to under pressure, but part of that is only because Victor's rarely given himself the opportunity.

 

And yet Women's Day looms ominously on the calendar, and he knows all too well that if he misses _that_ because of a refusal to speak to his grandmother, all hopes of her staying out of his business at least until season's end will be shot. If it's inevitable, then Victor wants to at least be _prepared_ for it.

 

He takes it down from the shelf, rubbing the paper between his fingers. The plan can still work if he skims it, or takes pictures before he gets rid of the physical evidence. There's no need for him to hold onto something like this, not when there are other ways of keeping the information at hand.

 

"Yuuri," Victor asks, "would you like some tea? You can pick something in the meantime."

 

Yuuri doesn't say anything, just waves his hand as best he can in his position. Victor takes that as answer, and hums an assent before turning on his heel for the door. He pauses only to run his hand over dark hair and soft curls as he passes the couch. With his luck, they'll both be half-asleep by the time he returns, at peace and none the wiser.

 

As he goes, Victor slips his finger under a loose corner of the flap and lifts gently, tilting the envelope so that the weight shifts over his palm. He feels something slide, shifting in the paper folds like sand, but something stops it from slipping out. Frowning, he pries the flap open a little more, wondering what else could possibly be inside. If he looks closely, he can almost make out a faint, dark square against the pale paper and the faint silhouette of… _something_ when he holds it up to the hall light. But what?

 

Something almost cordlike finally slips out. It's thin and looped, braided like silk thread, but the lobster clasp gleaming bright against his palm is unmistakable. Victor's confusion only increases. Jewelry? Why in the world would his father give him jewelry? It's not as if--

 

No. No, there was one piece of jewelry that his father _could_ give him.

 

Without thinking, Victor tears open the rest of the envelope, hearing only the quicksilver beat of his pulse in his ears. He holds his breath as he pulls the chain and fishes out not one, but two plain gold rings, one thin and delicate and the other thicker but just as sturdy as his own. Time has tarnished them both, but Victor remembers.

 

He stares, confused and, if he's honest with himself, a little alarmed. _Papka_ , the envelope said, but Victor hasn't called his father that since their fight. And for him to still call him by that endearment, even after what must have been years of waiting--

 

He thought it was meant to be mocking, the same sort of dry, derisive humor they were both used to with Victor's grandmother. Just cutting and disapproving enough to still make a point years after the man's passing. But those names with these rings -- rings, Victor knows, his father must have worn and guarded to his dying day -- there is only one reasonable explanation for that.

 

His spacious apartment suddenly feels too small.  Though he'll regret it halfway out the door, as tempted as he becomes once he's past the threshold of the apartment building and turning for the street, he does not call out for Yuuri.

 

This, after all, is something Victor must work through on his own.

 

* * *

 

The story of how his parents met is one Victor knows very well. It's nearly on par with his grandmother's very publicized "romance" with a politician that played out more like a tragic comedy act, for how often the man was rebuked and kicked out of the theater -- and the actual story of how the politician's beleaguered personal assistant ended up becoming Victor's grandfather, even after getting bludgeoned with a violin case more than once.

 

It starts like this: his grandmother is invited to perform in a concert celebrating forty years of peace (all relative, she loves to remind him) and drags his mid-twenties-in-age father along because at age fifty-something she's starting her descent from a somewhat palatable scathing silence to much louder and sparking temper flares. Victor's father, perhaps the only living person in the world who isn't horribly afraid of upsetting her, goes ahead to inspect the stage and ensure she won't be ranting about it in the privacy of her hotel room (or publically to the organizers of the event) later.

 

He's not the only one there, a handful of other musicians' PAs or agents also looking out for their own. Someone asks a question out loud, no one who tells the story ever remembers what, and the proprietor and her assistant join everyone on stage to see the issue themselves.

 

Victor's father looks up and turns at the odd combination of soft footfalls and a solid tap of hard rubber against wood. He sees a beautiful young woman with silver-blonde hair in long, loose ringlets, a clipboard in one hand and the handle of a wooden cane in the other.

 

Their eyes meet. Victor's father gets so flustered that he trips over his own feet, manages to miss the edge of the stage, and tumbles right into the thankfully empty orchestra pit. He's so mortified by this that he immediately stammers out an excuse, runs back to the hotel, and spends the rest of that weekend hiding. He and Victor's grandmother return to St. Petersburg and not two months later, that same woman is now a stage assistant in the theater Victor's grandmother usually is invited to play at. It still takes another four months for him to work up the courage to speak to her. He nearly loses it again when she admits to him that his fall scared her half to death and she thought he blamed her for it.

 

Two years later, they married, and another three years after that, Victor was born. Victor's grandmother, as far as he knows, has never let his father live it down. Victor takes at least _some_ pride in the fact that no matter which version of his and Yuuri's first meeting is referenced in conversation, it will never be as bad as that. If nothing else, they have the excuse of competitions and being from different countries in their favor for why it took so long to meet again properly.

 

 As Victor stares out over the water, dark even with the streetlights behind him leaving spots of stark white on its surface, he wonders how different things would be now if his mother managed to make it through that one harsh winter and the pneumonia it gave her when Victor was still so young. Theo's newest piece in his ears and the celesta twinkling in soft staccato under the smoother notes and lower register of its grand piano brethren, he squeezes his grip on his parents' rings in his pocket and thins his lips, eyes hard as he contemplates continuing the rest of the way across the bridge to the rink, only distantly mindful of the time.

 

Would she have agreed with his father? Would she have championed for Victor instead? Would she have had more influence on his father's apparent cowardice, reminding him of how close he'd been to losing her years and years ago because of a similar incident and not wanting to subject her son to that awful silent treatment, however unintended it may be?

 

Would his father, upon having all his worst fears come into fruition had he lived even a year longer, have finally tossed them aside to make amends on his own?

 

Grief is a monster Victor still doesn't know too well. He's seen the destruction and havoc it leaves in its wake, he's seen the scars of its attacks. Tutti's death when he'd been young had been a shock, but he'd known she was old and it was more of a relief to not see her totter around the lower levels of the house in her attempts to keep her old habits. He knows, in a few short years, he'll be going through the same with Maccachin, though he still acts as if he's got plenty of energy to spare for his golden years; it shows in how much more often he needs to nap, the way he grumbles if handled a little too carelessly, the white threading around his eyes and muzzle starker than the strands muting the richness of his chocolate-colored coat. He'd seen in Yuuri how grief bleeds into everything when what's lost is someone or something so wholly loved taken far too soon, and healing takes longer than expected.

 

He'd seen in his father, time and time again, how grief twists even love into something like apathy, because nothing is made to endure pain forever.

 

For all these years, Victor's lived under the impression that he'd pushed his father's patient affection for him too far. That something said in anger to him, something that in hindsight was so blatantly immature that it couldn't possibly be taken seriously, had somehow been the last straw in a long line of smaller offenses because it'd been the only explanation to make sense. That Victor hadn't necessarily been wrong in his assumptions stings. That he'd apparently underestimated how much of a fragile heart his father had, though, stings more.

 

His father hadn't walked out on him that day in anger. He'd walked out on him in _shame_.

 

Newly seventeen as he was, Victor had turned the sharp pain of rejection into fuel for his future, refusing to let even a shred of it show. The best revenge was always one served with a smile, after all; he'd learned that from his grandmother. His father insisted that Victor was inevitably going to crash and burn and destroy himself in the process, an Icarus forced to stay aloft for the amusement of others? Well then, Victor would learn how to twist himself in the fall to have the wax of his wings harden again before he drowns in the ocean. If the world was entertained, it'd be by Victor's own designs and not the whims of a puppeteer. And those trying to hold onto his strings could say nothing, not if Victor outsmarted them with their own rules.

 

Viktor Anatolievich became _Victor Nikiforov_ that day, and proceeded to do everything possible to ensure that there was nothing the world could throw at him to make him complacent and easy pickings for the vultures up in the Cabinet funding the FFKK. He fought for his own music, avoiding using his grandmother's connections if he could help it. He hid away his choreography, showing it in full only to Yakov once he'd gotten everything else in place. He clumsily sketched his own costumes in the margins and loose-leaves of his notebooks, slowly becoming more skilled at knowing what could and couldn't be done as time went on when he tried to approach costume designers with them. He took his own personality under a microscope and cultivated it to maximum appeal, toning down his more mischievous nature into feather-light teasing and his stubbornness into the high head and set shoulders similar to what his grandmother had done in her prime.

 

Europeans that year had been the first real test for it. It'd been an overwhelming success, from his renewed sharp focus on making his programs pop to his breezy and engaging interactions with fans and press alike. Officials were furious at Yakov for letting Victor "go off the rails", but meetings with them were handled with blithe smiles and a highlighted copy of their own rules pointing out he'd done nothing wrong, had even brought them Russia's first international gold for the season. If they had further complaints, Yakov never let him know for sure; by the time Victor could do these meetings alone, they were mostly just ensuring he wasn't breaking any rules instead of keeping him locked down like everyone else.

 

He never looked back, and not once did his father attempt to bridge the gap himself. Victor thought for years that the man kept his distance because his pride still stung sharp, refusing to even allow Victor to see him as his health suddenly deteriorated and he passed in relative solitude. He never entertained the thought that just like with his mother years ago, Victor's father had been too scared to speak with him again.

 

That letter, written on the man's deathbed, was his last attempt to gather his courage in a way that could withstand the test of time -- and even then, he failed to get it in Victor's hands until it was years and years too late to fix things.

 

At the very least his grandmother's anger on the issue makes sense now. Of the two boys she'd raised, one hid behind a mask and the barrier of the public eye, and the other hid behind written words and as far out of sight as possible. How must it look, that such a headstrong and steely woman raised such cowards?

 

Against his better judgement, Victor turns towards the bridge to the rink. He needs a little more time to process this. Even if it's just standing there, watching over the ice, it's better than staying out here in the elements. Perhaps he doesn't need to bear this burden alone, but there are very few left who would understand the full extent of the rings Victor holds in his hand. Victor himself barely understands what he's been given; how could he expect that of Yuuri?

 

"Vitya!" he hears suddenly, and he stills before looking up. Yakov's familiar form stands silhouetted halfway across the bridge, a hefty scowl on his face from his tone. "What the hell are you doing out here this time of night without answering your phone? Go back home before you worry Katsuki sick!"

 

Victor's hand automatically goes for his pocket, and he blinks to himself as he pulls it out and sees the handful of calls he's missed already, Yuuri's number alone at a guilt-twisting eleven along with a string of messages. Had he really not noticed the notification chimes for them? How?

 

Yakov's crossing over to him, huffing as he approaches. A faint dusting of snow blows off the railing and onto Yakov's face, and there it sits, slowly melting, on the rim of his hat.

 

"Katsuki said you left to make tea forty minutes ago and never came back," Yakov explains, holding out his own phone to show his call records. "Imagine expecting someone to only be gone five minutes at most, and then when twice that passes, going around and realizing you've been left alone with nothing but a half-open letter _from your fiancé's dead father_."

 

Victor can't hide his wince this time. Yakov's already sour face darkens at the sight.

 

"There were other things in there," Victor explains. "I needed to take them out before getting rid of the letter."

 

"Why do you need to do anything with it at all?" Yakov asks him sharply. "Tolya's _dead_ , Vitya! If he wanted to give you something, then he should've done it himself instead of letting Nadya choose when! Hell, that idiot should've come back to the center, at _any_ point in the three years he'd been alive after what he said to you, and tell you whatever he wrote down in person!"

 

"But he didn't, Yakov." Victor's grip on his parents' rings tightens. "He let me go, and I never came back. So he never bothered to try."

 

And that -- _that_ is the crux of this whole mess, isn't it?

 

He still remembers the blank stare, the slump of shoulders like a marionette torn free of its strings. He remembers the unconscious touch to his mother's ring that hung on his father's neck, as close to his heart as it could be, how that had felt like blindingly painful proof of Victor's cutting, angry accusation.

 

And then what seemed to be the smoking gun: the fact his father's face stayed unreadable as he turned for the door and left, never once looking back at Victor like a choice had been silently made.

 

Though it wasn't the last time Victor ever saw of him, it'd been the last time either of them spent any amount of time around each other. The last time Victor saw him had been little but a glimpse at the top of the stairs of their mutual childhood home, the man hiding away in his bedroom and only daring to leave when Victor was taking the last of his things out to move into the very apartment he still lives in today.

 

A hand falls to his crown.

 

For a moment, Victor lets himself believe the large hand is stiff with awkwardness rather than arthritis, that the tips fall easy and tender through his hair like it's something precious. That the broad figure in front of him is taller and scruffier in the face, that the blue eyes are less toned towards the dark of steel and more to the light of silver, in a faded knit sweater stretched out with years of use because he can't bear to put it away instead of a trusty coat a few seasons old. That it's ten years in the past, and for the first time in long months instead of too many years too late.

 

Yakov lets him have his dignity as he evens his breathing, eyes burning but vision clear. There are no tears left; there hasn't been for a long, long time.

 

"I'm old enough to know better now," Victor says finally, letting the bitterness through. "But I was still so young then. Why did he think any of that was a good idea?"

 

"He didn't," Yakov answers, short and grave. "Even Nadya was angry at him for what happened, you know. He knew better than to beg you to quit while you were ahead, especially like that, and he did it anyway. It doesn't excuse what you said about Elena, but I can't say he didn't have that coming with how he acted."

 

Victor sighs, closing his eyes. His grandmother said she was sick of this whole mess months ago, and he can't blame her. He knows what her stance on the whole affair was -- both her boys were idiots and hopefully they were grown enough to fix it themselves, not that it actually happened that way -- and he's sure he can guess now why she was so upset with him after his father's passing. It may have fallen on Victor to decide to forgive his father, but it'd been up to his father to actually come forward with intent to apologize first. Instead, neither of them budged and before anyone knew it, the chance to fix everything that had gone wrong had passed.

 

There's still the letter back in the apartment, too. He knew to expect a too-late apology for his father's rash actions that day so long ago, but he hadn't anticipated it to be this forthright or sincere. Not after what Victor spat out in retaliation, a heat-of-the-moment and completely hypothetical ultimatum given with blood rushing between his ears.

 

And even that, he'd been too much of a coward to do face-to-face.

 

"Come, Vitya," Yakov interrupts his thoughts, and Victor looks up to meet his coach's gruff expression. "Pull yourself together and go rescue Katsuki from his panicking. He was halfway out the door when he finally called me, and no one wants to find out he was on the wrong side of the bridges when they come up for the night."

 

Victor nods, the guilt of just leaving Yuuri behind without a word biting into him more than it probably should. Yakov inclines his head and turns away, readjusting his hat to prevent the night sea's breeze from sweeping it away.

 

("But you'd bend over backwards if it was Mama standing here instead of me, wouldn't you?"

 

A choke, then silence.

 

And Victor, stunned and eyes pricking in disbelief, watched his father's face twist and even out as he wordlessly made his escape.)

 

He takes his phone and pulls up Yuuri's number with that prickle still under his skin, swallowing as he brings it up to his ear and waits for the call to connect. After scaring Yuuri like that, he deserves Victor's voice as confirmation, not text or writing.

 

The phone barely rings once before he hears Yuuri, out of breath and with the rush of a late winter wind muffling his end of the line. " _Victor? Victor, where are you? Are you with Coach Yakov? Are you at your grandmother's? What's going on?_ "

 

His eyes sting at the familiar thread of panic in Yuuri's voice. He really should have just gone straight to Yuuri instead of trying to handle all of this himself. Even if Yuuri didn't _know_ , he's never given Victor a reason to think he wouldn't stand by him while he untangled his thoughts.

 

"I didn't go that far," Victor says, swallowing down an apology. Not yet. Yuuri deserves that in person, not over the phone. "Yakov was just with me; he's heading back right now. I can explain at home, it'll be easier on both of us."

 

There's a heavy sigh strung with an elongated _yokatta_ on the other end of the line, tuned to Yuuri's unique blend of both country-style Japanese and American English. " _You really scared me, you know. You were-- god, Victor, you hated that letter so much! So when I saw it opened on the floor, I just--_ "

 

"I know," Victor says, closing his eyes. "I... I don't think I can keep ignoring it like I have. Not after what I found. I'll see you back home."

 

" _Um._ " The hesitation on Yuuri's end sounds odd, almost embarrassed. " _About that? How far is that old man's cart from the building again?_ "

 

Victor blinks. "That's about half a kilometer from where I am. North of the bridge?"

 

There's a long moment of quiet, then, " _You were by the bridge this whole time?! I went the total opposite way!_ "

 

A loud bark of a laugh breaks the faint white noise of the water lapping against posts below, and it takes Yakov whipping around to shoot him a startled and annoyed look in the distance to realize it came from him. In his ear, Yuuri continues to try explaining how he even ended up going that direction at all in a fluster, something about their nosy neighbors across the hall and the doorman hesitating before assisting when Yuuri begged for more details from them. Well, Victor did warn Yuuri about relying too much on learning from older, overly proper native speakers, even ones provided by a machine and a program.

 

"Yuuri," he interrupts, heart aching and eyes burning with the sheer amount of adoration he has for this wonderful, overreacting man. "Face the water, follow the road right. I'll wait for you at the bridge. And then after we get this settled, we are going to get you a proper tutor once the season's over before someone decides to do it for us."

 

* * *

 

Barely five minutes passes before the slap of feet against pavement approaches and Victor turns. He barely has time to open his mouth before Yuuri is buried in his chest, arms wrapping around his ribs and shaking like a leaf.

 

"Stupid," comes from Yuuri in a low, petulant mutter. Still, his grip tightens as if he's afraid Victor will vanish in front of him if he lets go. "Don't scare me like that again."

 

Victor sighs, pressing his face to Yuuri's bare crown already covered in a light freckling of the late winter flurry. "I know. I'm so sorry, I should have never just left like that."

 

"Those two old ladies laughed at me the whole time," Yuuri continues in the same tone. "The doorman looked at me like I was crazy. I realized halfway down the block I'd forgotten my hat and didn't button up my coat. That's when I called Coach Yakov, because I knew I wasn't going to be thinking straight."

 

Victor pauses in his gentle rubbing of Yuuri's back, frowning as he counts the timeframes he'd been given. "You've been out here for--? Yuuri!"

 

"Don't, Victor," Yuuri bites back, pushing away enough to meet Victor's eyes with a tight jaw. "You don't get to tell me to stay inside and wait for you when you were the one out here longer."

 

"I'm _from_ here, Yuuri," Victor groans, raising his hands to cup Yuuri's cold-bitten ears and rub them gently. Yuuri's face flinches slightly on contact, which only fuels Victor's concerns. "Remember how miserable I was in the summer? This is what I'm used to. I've been out in this kind of weather for longer than this before!"

 

"That doesn't make it _okay_." The prickling in Yuuri's tone is less, still agitated but not as defensive.

 

Still, Victor sighs and pulls Yuuri closer, until their foreheads touch and the tips of their noses brush together. "You are so stubborn. There's a reason foreigners tend to bundle up like small children when they come visit. What were you thinking?"

 

"That's the thing, Victor," Yuuri grumbles. "I _don't_ think when it comes to you. I never have, and I probably never will."

 

Briefly, Victor recalls a bloody nose, an on-a-sleep-deprived-whim quad flip, being tugged through a Christmas market in Barcelona back to the church they'd passed twenty minutes before with a brand new purchase from a jewelry store for a more appropriate setting, a bet and request as bubbly and sweet as the champagne being tossed back like water on a cold winter's night. No, Yuuri's proven to be overly cautious as a baseline, but given no time to let his mind warp his perception of things he's far more rash and reckless than anyone would expect from him.

 

"I took pole dance classes behind Coach Celestino's back," Yuuri continues. "I let a street-dance group teach me how to get up from a fall on beat. I was stupid enough to go to America with nothing but a high school diploma when there were good coaches in Japan because I needed to prove to myself I could actually speak English properly. I traded Japanese lessons with a Russian speaker so I didn't just have English to rely on, little good that did me. All because I wanted to be someone you could take seriously if and when we met."

 

Victor has to hold back a laugh at that, short and disbelieving as it is. "Someone I could take seriously? Yuuri, you're more than that to me. Surely you know that by now, don't you?"

 

Yuuri's face darkens with a flush. "I figured if you could take me seriously, I stood a good chance to be your friend eventually. I didn't exactly expect..." He coughs, glancing up to meet Victor's eyes. "How does it go? Start with baby steps?"

 

"I prefer the one about aiming for the moon myself," Victor says, dipping his chin enough to press his lips to Yuuri's. He hums at contact, their cool temperature and rougher texture a reminder of how long Yuuri's been out in this weather in a panic. "We really should head back."

 

"We should," Yuuri agrees. His grip tightens. "You're... you're really going to read it now, after all?"

 

Victor sighs. "If I don't, it will distract me from Worlds. No one wants that, least of all me."

 

Perhaps nothing will change. Perhaps his father, ever the perpetual coward he's been all his life, still would've failed to properly share his honest self with Victor in a way that makes sense. Perhaps the worst of it's already passed in the form of his parents' rings finally together again. Perhaps this is simply the closure his grandmother's been desperate for these past several years, not exactly what she wanted but still an end to the tiptoeing around talk of her late son in Victor's presence.

 

Yuuri looks at him, brow furrowed and eyes bright. "Victor, are you ready?"

 

His parents' rings sit safe and snug in the pocket of his coat, but there is still one last task Victor's left undone.

 

"I think so." He shifts his grip, fingers weaving with Yuuri's as they turn to walk the road back side by side. "Let's go home, love."

 

* * *

 

 

[Snippet of Anatoli's letter to Victor, dated December 13, 2008:]

 

> _Though I am no stranger_
> 
> _To moonless nights, still--_
> 
> _It is the stars that shine on above,_
> 
> _Bright and sure, and though wishes_
> 
> _Are a dream of happier times,_
> 
> _I, foolish and alone,_
> 
> _Am only human_
> 
> _And I must wake_
> 
> _To the harshness of day._

_-Dedicated to my most brilliant little star. May you find all your heart's desires wherever your light leads you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun bonus notes:  
> \- All the emails are actually the building of Victor's _actual_ EX piece, which he did not do at Europeans. Sound-wise, it's similar (ish?) to Josh Groban's [So She Dances](https://youtube.com/watch?v=cHYss-CPReM) though obviously without lyrics and with the bit he mentions about the _On Love_ leitmotif.  
>  \- I literally used DuoLingo for this. I sat and argued with it for... _less_ time than Yuuri did but still embarrassingly long when it tried to insist a certain Spanish sentence was wrong but I knew I was getting right. I had my native-speaker mother try. It said _she_ was wrong. We were both very confused and chalked it up to being picky about accents.  
>  \- The whole "Yuri Katsuki" thing the Novices are doing are basically them pronouncing it the Russian way. Also, "throwing a non-native speaker at native children" is a language-learning method that's been used on me and I hate it because little kids are terrifyingly blunt.  
> \- [The wedding shop is actually a banquet hall (largely?) _for_ weddings but it exists](https://www.google.com/maps/place/The+Wedding+Banquet+Xuan+Arena+shop/@25.0508852,121.5488282,17.37z/data=!4m8!1m2!2m1!1staipei+arena+wedding!3m4!1s0x3442abe81f4b207f:0x2c2be12a72412e05!8m2!3d25.0511068!4d121.5505628). _That_ was fun to find out when I was doing research.  
>  \- For any of you who don't know Bambi: it's... old and has a lot of Disney's usual tropes re: origins stories as a fair warning. And where the word twitterpated comes from. ~~Though if Yuuri's Bambi, I guess that makes Phichit Thumper?~~  
>  \- You can blame that whole Victor brooding over the rings scene for this taking forever, by the way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, two years ago when I started this: oh, I'll just wrap this up neat and tidy, just a cute little multi-chapter with no major purpose other than tying up some loose ends  
> me now, ~80K words later and staring at my hands in muted horror: _this was supposed to be 30K AT MOST_. how does this keep happening??
> 
> But in all seriousness, if you've stuck with me this whole time, thank you. If you've chosen to wait until I finished this to start reading... I'm sorry and an extra thank you for your patience. It's really been something of a journey to get this out, and despite the ups and downs of my life making things more difficult to work on this for significant lengths of time, I'm glad and proud that I can say I stuck with this and finished it as I promised myself I would. It got... significantly out of hand, but I stayed true to my intentions and finally finished this before the actual movie came out. ~~but seriously, self, ~80K what the _hell_~~ Canon is now free to screw me over as much as it wants.
> 
> Enjoy the last part of this ride, everyone! See you as I now throw myself back into my other ongoing fic, where I was smart enough to give myself a word count per chapter limit! (...And am maybe a quarter/third way through the main plot. Why does everything become longfic in my hands.)
> 
> (Also, as a side note: this is the one and only chapter where Victor is mostly referred to as "Viktor", as our special-guest POV insists that Victor and Viktor are, mostly, two different people. He's still Victor in other people's dialogue. This is not a mistake on my part.)

On the eighth of March, Nadezhda gets up and holds her breath before shaking it off and continuing with her day. This year, there will be no calls; of this, she is sure.

 

Of course, when she says there will be no calls, she means there will be none she is personally interested in. One of those useless Cabinet lice left another letter in her mail trying to sweet-talk her into performing tonight at her old theater for a women's only show the other day. There's no doubt in her mind he's going to try again, safe on the other end of a phone line, after she'd scoffed and used it as kindling for the stove. Fat lot of good it'll do him. Does he not understand what the word "retired" means?

 

Her tea brews as she goes through her morning routine. She takes a cup full of water and shuffles over to her windowsill, pouring a splash into each pot sitting there. Some are herbs; some are simply greens to liven up the room. Viktor's ridiculous and passive-aggressive purple flowers are also there, a little wilted from the late winter cold coming in through a draft but still hanging on and will surely perk up once the weather finally warms. She scoffs and flicks a loose petal. He _would_ pick a more persistent plant to bother her with even when he's not around, wouldn't he?

 

At their heart, the living are fighters. Something has to be very wrong for a living creature of any sort to simply give up and ignore their most basic of instincts. Nadezhda knows this better than most; she's lived and fought for too long, from her constant battles to keep coin in her pocket to feed both herself and her sickly little brother after the war, to the fleeting moments of peace she knew all too well could end from one heartbeat to the next. Another day is never guaranteed, but even with death lurking around every corner life never surrenders so easily.

 

Perhaps she should be more alert knowing that, after already losing so much in her lifetime. But she's eighty two and she's too damn _tired_ to keep living with one eye open and looking over her shoulder. The least the world could do to make up for all it's taken from her is allow her golden years to be peaceful.

 

At least it seems that Viktor's not doing too horribly for himself, if Lilia's grousing at their weekly tea is any indication. Even if he seems to be running himself ragged ( _again_ , that stupid boy) he's actually learning how to listen to his body and call it a day before he collapses from exhaustion due to Yuuri being far more energetic and wearing him out. She appreciates the unknowing assistance. Viktor has never been very good at taking care of his needs if they aren't related to his ice skating. Hell, when he'd been a child, he barely even remembered to do _that_ much.

 

Viktor likely doesn't even remember running in that afternoon when he was four the first time he "tried" skating, eyes sparkling and voice high in blabbering excitement and a giant smear of red across half his face. He'd nearly given Anatoli a heart attack, and Nadezhda remembers all too well shooing her nervous son away so his shaking hands didn't end up jarring Viktor's already beaten-up face into more serious damage. Viktor tried sneaking out the next afternoon for another go at it; Nadezhda caught him in the act thanks to the dog and immediately signed him up with a proper coach just to preserve her son's peace of mind.

 

Of course, _that_ led to a whole new slew of problems. The first time Anatoli found a bloodied sock, he'd nearly fainted and fretted that Viktor was being bullied. Viktor's cheery explanation that he was fine, just had blisters, and then _showed the damned things off_ , did nothing to ease his father's mind. The second time he'd shown up at home with blood and bruises smeared across his face, he grumpily held up his broken skates and demanded to learn how to repair a shoe sole properly. Nadezhda sent his coach a bottle of spirits infused with currants. God only knew how much the poor man needed it, dealing with Viktor's ridiculously high energy and razor-sharp mind.

 

And by God, that never changed. Once Lilia mentioned that her husband had an interest in Viktor after seeing him in competition, Nadezhda threw her hands up and told her that the man could _have_ Viktor if he didn't mind the constant badgering and tricks Viktor employed to get his way. She laughed and hung up when Yakov called her barely two weeks into taking Viktor on, blustering about Viktor stealing the keys for the rink off him and charming himself extra practice time from Yakov's then-Senior skaters. She kept getting calls like that over the years, to the point she's sure Yakov is only complaining to her because she can commiserate about Viktor's bad habits better than most.

 

Her kettle whistles. She shuffles back to the stove, clicking her tongue at the remains of ash clinging to one of the burners and flicking it off before reaching over to turn off the heat. As it clicks off, her ears catch the low hum of people walking around outside sharing conversations and a dog's quickstep trot. She frowns, wondering which of her neighbors feels the need to be this loud the morning of a holiday.

 

She reaches for her china cabinet, huffing in annoyance. She'll deal with them later--

 

Someone knocks at her door.

 

Her frown deepens in suspicion. That louse wouldn't actually come to her house first thing in the morning, would he? Even he's got to have enough sense to know how horrible an idea that is.

 

She can't see her front door from her kitchen window, and the bit of her street she can see gives away nothing. The louse wouldn't bother walking too far, so either it's not him or he's gotten marginally cleverer and parked out of sight. Barely an improvement compared to most, but a significant one for the likes of a politician.

 

As she makes her way to her front door, she grumbles as she straightens the crick in her back and resets her shoulders into their old sureness. Her aged face should be enough to scare him off on its own, but sometimes those dumb babes in the Cabinet need reminders about their predecessors' bloodied hands and its effects on their country's people.

 

She smooths back her hair and draws in a breath. Her hands fumble with the fussiness of the locks, but she manages as she always does.

 

When she opens the door, she finds herself facing a very different sort of pest.

 

"Good morning, Babulya," Viktor greets, looking more humbled than she ever recalls seeing on his face in his life. She feels her brows rise into her hairline, not sure if she's more stunned by his appearance on her doorstep after the way he left months ago or the fact he's holding a bouquet of daffodils for probably the first time since he was twelve. "Happy Women's Day."

 

Well. He definitely didn't _call_ , that's for certain.

 

Her attention darts to Viktor's side, where Yuuri stands with one hand on Viktor's back either keeping him still or offering reassurance. Possibly both, the fool boy. "Did you put him up to this?"

 

"Victor decided this on his own," Yuuri tells her. His face maintains a stoicism that wasn't present the last two times she'd seen him in person. "Please allow him to speak. It's been a rough night for both of us."

 

Rough night? What in the world is the boy talking about? "Vityen'ka, explain."

 

Viktor draws in a breath of his own, and meets her eyes properly. They're a little red at the rims, odd for how rarely Viktor ever cries. He manages a pitifully weak facsimile of his usual smile, and pulls a torn envelope from his coat with his free hand. On its front is her Tolenka's handwriting, barely recognizable in his last days.

 

"I read it finally," Viktor says, voice giving away nothing. "I'd like some answers."

 

This time, Nadezhda's eyes catch the way Yuuri presses closer to Viktor with a subtle lean of his body. Despite herself, she has a flash of a memory to twenty nine years ago, watching Anatoli and Elena quietly try to discuss her pregnancy on Nadezhda's porch like she couldn't hear them through the cracked-open window.

 

Life keeps surprising her in strange ways.

 

And life, this past year, has thrown a young Japanese man equal parts skittish and hot-blooded at her and her grandson, and for some reason he's why her wayward little magpie's finally taken off his damned blinders and let himself see the mess he's made of his personal life.

 

"Come in, then," she says evenly. "I just made tea."

 

* * *

 

When she sets the table, the daffodils in a vase, she makes sure to take out the rose jam Viktor's always preferred, something she picked up a taste for because it gave her something to do with all the roses she kept receiving after performances. She doesn't miss the way Yuuri seems to twitch at the sight of it, and she huffs a dry laugh. Of course Nadezhda knows about Japan's insistence on keeping tastes as clean as possible; it doesn't mean she's not going to torment the boy a little. She has years to make up for, and since Viktor's maintained his shamelessness it leaves her no one else to pester.

 

Anatoli's letter sits on the table between Viktor and her empty seat, still in its envelope. Yuuri takes over pouring, which she raises a brow at but allows with a pointed look at Viktor. He huffs his own weak laugh, eyes flicking to his fiancé with unabashed fondness. So much like his father, that boy; Anatoli had been just as useless when Elena insisted on serving herself to feel less coddled.

 

As she settles in her seat after preparing her tea to her preference, she gingerly pulls the letter towards her and removes it from its envelope to skim. She snorts at the poem; she'd wondered where that one went, when she put away Anatoli's things after his funeral.

 

"He wrote this your eighteenth birthday," she says aloud. She hears Viktor fumble with his teacup, setting it down a little more harshly than her china probably deserves. Eh, it's fancy clay. What's she going to do with it after she dies? "The actual letter, he wrote _that_ three weeks before he passed. Figures it'd take that hopeless child until the last possible moment to actually do something about the mess he made."

 

"Of course he did," Viktor mutters under his breath. Louder, he asks, "What do you know about the SD card that was in the envelope with the letter and the rings?"

 

Nadezhda squints, not sure what ridiculous modern mumbo-jumbo Viktor's talking about, and Yuuri clears his throat and makes a tiny square with his fingers. Oh. That thing. "He wanted to do something and got one of the nurses to help him. He never told me what, just asked that I made sure you got it at the same time as the letter." And there was no way she'd be able to keep track of that pointlessly small thing for years, waiting for Viktor to actually look and act like he intended to stay put for longer than a handful of weeks at a time. Bad enough she had to more or less make appointments to speak to her own grandson -- people wanted her to play errand-girl, too?

 

Viktor looks at her, face even. "So you don't know, then."

 

...Oh, Anatoli. He'd have better not made things _worse_ from beyond the grave. God, as if Elena wouldn't be disappointed enough by this nonsense.

 

It must show on her face, because Yuuri lifts his hands in a placating manner. "It's not... bad, really? Just odd. Victor said that he knew you wouldn't like it, but it seemed like something his father would've done."

 

"He read his book for me," Viktor elaborates before Nadezhda can push for more of an explanation. "Just like he used to read to Mama."

 

Nadezhda sucks in a breath, grip tightening on her teacup. Of course her hopeless son would do such a thing instead of actually _talking_ to Viktor. Elena was a gentler soul, more sympathetic to Anatoli's quirks and too-soft heart. Viktor is nothing like that. He's never been. And that wasn't even starting with the idiocy of continuing to bring the dead back among the living! Sharing memories is one thing, but acting as if they're still present? That will do nothing but harm. She'd told Anatoli and Viktor both so many times to let the dead stay dead; of course it'd be her rebellious grandson who was the closest to actually _listening_.

 

Viktor sighs as he looks into his teacup, brow furrowed. "I just don't understand. He had three years to come up with _something_ , and the best he could do was treat me the same way he treated Mama? How am I supposed to react to that?"

 

"For someone whose trade was words, he was awful at them," Nadezhda huffs. She sets her tea down. "Though to be fair to him, you did not make it easy for him to approach you, either."

 

"I was at the rink most days," Viktor insists, an offended sharpness to his tone. "He knew how and where to find me."

 

"And you made it very clear you were far less likely than usual to listen," Nadezhda deadpans. "You're already a menace when you actually like the person trying to tell you what to do. You're a hellion when you decide they're no longer in your good graces!"

 

"He said I needed to quit for my own good--!"

 

"He spent his whole life watching me get harassed to perform on command," Nadezhda cuts in, eyes hard. "And then the woman he fell in love with barely lived herself, having had her dreams crushed with her knee in a childhood accident. Did you think he panicked as much as he did whenever you came home limping and beat-up because he didn't know what you were doing to yourself?"

 

Viktor's jaw clinks shut. Nadezhda takes no pride in that. It's simply something Viktor's needed to hear.

 

"He couldn't handle the thought of you becoming like Elena," Nadezhda says, frowning. "You trained hard and proudly bore the scars you got from it. We often heard about how you'd steal more practice time for yourself. He caught you staying awake hours after you should have gone to bed, pouring over music and notes, only to leave for practice first thing in the morning. He saw and he knew, if anything happened to you, you'd be just as bad as, if not worse than your mother. He couldn't give her back her first love, but he had it in his head that he could save you from yours before it was too late."

 

Yuuri glances between the two of them, brow furrowed in quiet suspicion. Nadezhda doubts his Russian's improved enough these past two and a half months to pick up the intricacies of their conversation. Viktor, at least, is no longer putting himself between them. Honestly, what does he think an old woman like her can do to a young athlete in his prime?

 

"But I did fall," Viktor insists, still looking terse. "And I got back on my feet just fine. I was miserable, yes, but it was because it made me realize how much I took for granted."

 

Nadezhda quirks a brow at him. "Imagine that," she says coolly, waiting.

 

She remembers Yakov's call, tired and almost frantic because Viktor still, _still_ kept trying to hobble out of his apartment to the sports center despite doctor's orders and Yakov's own rants. When they finally got him to stay at home, Viktor littered it with balled-up papers, scattered pens and pencils, and hours of sulking on either of the two couches he owned or his bed between attempts to navigate around without crutches. He was far less stuck-up afterward, but he still threw himself back into his skating without a second thought and with the desperation of a parched man given water.

 

And if just to prove he hadn't learned much from his experience, several months later he'd shorn off his hair for some small-name composer who struggled similarly to Nadezhda in her youth, gifting it to her hospital-bound son when he'd never so much as _tried_ to do similar for his by-then late father.

 

Viktor is many things -- clever, cunning... intelligent, even! -- but no one ever said that _bright_ was one of them.

 

As if proving her point, Viktor frowns deeper at her in obvious suspicion. "Babulya, not this again. Why are _you_ still holding a grudge about that, of all things?"

 

"Is there another way I'm supposed to take the knowledge that you purposely chose to upset my son, _your father_ , by keeping your hair long?" Nadezhda asks, tone curt. "And as soon as it's not inconvenient for you to get rid of it, you do?"

 

"It was my trademark and people kept expecting me to do _something_ with it," Viktor insists, just as he did six years ago. "Of course I was going to get sick of it eventually! Especially after trying to upkeep it while I was recovering!"

 

"Get sick of it," she repeats. "So tell me, when you get sick of _him_ , will you cut him off, too? Just like everything else that's outlived its usefulness to you?"

 

The china clatters down, tea sloshing out the rim. Viktor's eyes are hard and his jaw's tight, burning with an anger Nadezhda's only seen in her own reflection. There is no doubt Viktor is his parents' child, not with how sweetly innocent he can be, but she isn't fooled; no matter how much silver rolls off his tongue, Viktor knows very well how to bite like a viper when the need arises.

 

"You will not speak about him in that manner," Viktor snaps at her. "I am _trying_ , very hard, not to make this a repeat of last time, but if this continues you'll give me no choice."

 

"Nadya, _please_ ," Yuuri interrupts with a pained look on his face. She blinks in surprise, mostly because Yuuri is, in fact, speaking in Russian. Very stilted, robotic Russian that sounds awful, but better than before. "Don't make him mad. It's rude."

 

If she weren't trying to drive a point into her grandson's thick head, she'd laugh. Hah, the first time in a long time anyone's called her rude to her face and the one with the guts to do so is a skittish Japanese man!

 

Viktor still frowns at her darkly as Yuuri reaches for his tensed wrist. It melts under his touch, thawing the rest of him in short order. The sight is an odd one -- Viktor has rarely been so relaxed, even before he threw his everything into his career. It'll be a pity if this relationship fails, because it's clear the good Yuuri does for grounding the flighty fool.

 

She waits until Viktor's calmed enough before continuing, curt, "You say you came to see your father's side, and yet you're still defending your own childishness from back then. Every chance you've had to fix things on your own, you threw away. Please tell me how this is supposed to be any different, because frankly your word means very little to me these days."

 

For probably the first time in ages, Viktor actually flinches at her scolding. He stares down at his teacup, pressing his lips together and swallowing.

 

"Did he tell you," he starts, wary, "what I said to him then?"

 

"That you threw in his face that he'd have chosen your mother over you, had she still been alive?" Nadezhda says, "I'm aware, Vityen'ka. Yakov said as much when he called, livid about Tolenka upsetting you so much right after you'd won Nationals. He had a lot of choice words about it, him and Lilya both."

 

Viktor's brow furrows. "He did? _They_ did? Why? As a coach--"

 

"Sorochonok," Nadezhda sighs, shaking her head. "You are the last one here who can talk about what's appropriate for a coach to do."

 

Yuuri coughs into his tea, cheeks going red. Nadezhda raises a brow at that, wondering how much he understood. Perhaps Yakov should cut back on his blustering, if Yuuri was picking the barbs up _that_ quickly.

 

"And I never said you weren't in the right to be furious with him for that," Nadezhda continues while Viktor blinks in shock at having his more recent indiscretions aired out. "I tore into him too, when he came home. I'd have never stopped Vilya from doing what made him happy, because we had so little growing up and him even less than I, because at least I had my health. Elena fought to stay working in theaters after her injury despite how much it broke her heart to be in the office instead of on the stage. That your father would act as if he could choose for you was inexcusable. He damn well knew better."

 

Viktor lets out a short laugh. "You yelled at him and he still didn't budge? Wow."

 

"Don't act like it's something new to you," she complains at him. "You're the worst offender by far!"

 

Yuuri gingerly pushes the teacup away from him, still flushed. Viktor almost mindlessly offers his hand and the other takes it, fingers curling together on the table. Nadezhda holds back the snort. In some ways, Viktor is _worse_ than Anatoli; it took her son nearly two months into marriage to finally be so at ease with Elena the way Viktor is with Yuuri, and these boys don't even have an official wedding date set.

 

Viktor is distracted when he speaks again, voice lower and softer than before. "When did he start to regret it? When he got sick?"

 

Nadezhda thins her lips and looks toward the window. The streets are a little livelier now that some time's passed. Perhaps the louse will be busy with his own obligations today.

 

"That night," she answers, the truth heavy on her tongue. She hears more than sees Viktor's jerk of a reaction, a sharp but small intake of breath. "As I said, he was fearful and desperate to keep you safe, even if it meant you were angry with him. He didn't realize the weight of his decision until you refused to come home, and Yakov had you to stay with him instead."

 

"And you allowed it," Viktor says, faint. "Knowing what happened, you still allowed us to stew in it."

 

Sighing, Nadezhda looks back at him. "Would you have listened? No. You were young, proud, justifiably angry, and any attempt to reach you would be for naught until your temper cooled. And Tolenka, that poor fool son of mine, hid from the world in his shame. You rarely stayed still long enough for me to see if you were open for a talk, and he could not be budged without assurance that you did not hate him for his actions. And by the time an opportunity _finally_ presented itself, Tolenka was on his deathbed and refused to have you see him like that."

 

She still remembers the hospital room, nurses weaving in and out, the machines attached to her marshmallow of a son gone nearly as pale as the sheets, only the barest remains of strength in him to lift a pen to paper. It was only marginally more reassuring than watching her little brother wither away in this very house, in the room that eventually became Viktor's because it was the easiest to keep warm and clean, wheezing and gasping for air and barely able to move.

 

Vitali dreamed of seeing the world, enamored with the stories that Nadezhda brought home with her from concert venues she'd had to go to by train. He never lived long enough for her to tell him of her first trip to New York City. And she would not tell him, even more than sixty years later, because there was no point to sharing stories with someone who would never respond.

 

A pity that Anatoli felt differently all his life, to the very end of his days.

 

Viktor's expression is conflicted, torn between hurt and anger. But mostly, underneath it all, there is regret -- a thin spread of it, perhaps, but it is there.

 

"He didn't want your last memory of him to be tainted," she says finally. "Even if it was not a good one, to him it was better than subjecting you to the same sight he had of Elena when she passed, especially when he felt that his condition would have forced you to forgive him instead of you doing so willingly. He already betrayed your trust. He did not dare risk losing what love you had left for him by putting you in a position you couldn't be genuine in."

 

The expression Viktor gives her belies his disbelief, perhaps even suspicion, but it does not take long for it to thaw into something more like the child he used to be: the beloved child Anatoli had, however reluctantly, broken the heart of so many years ago.

 

"He had no right to make that decision for me," Viktor starts, the faint gleam of something in his eyes. "Even if I was still mad at him, it was still my choice to make!"

 

"No hospital worth their accreditation would release information about their patients without their consent," Nadezhda reminds him. "If he didn't want you there, all he had to do was tell them. It would have been crueler for me to tell you he was dying and leave you unable to do anything about it."

 

"I remember that part well enough on my own," Viktor reminds her, breath quickening just a beat. "I never saw him in the hospital, I didn't get to see him after he passed, I didn't even get to go to his funeral. He died thinking I hated him! And-- all he leaves me is a video of him talking to me like he did Mama, telling me about his day and what's been going on with him while reading the book he put together about how much he loves both of us, as if that's going to fix the fact he left me without even saying goodbye!"

 

Viktor's voice cracks on the last word, and he swallows down his emotions as Yuuri squeezes his hand and scoots closer. It doesn't take fluency to understand that Viktor's upset, especially not when the two of them have basically been inseparable since last April. Nadezhda doesn't interrupt, calmly sipping at her tea while Viktor recollects himself. Viktor had been upset then, too, but he hadn't allowed himself more than that; they'd been at odds too long, he claimed.

 

"Nadya," Yuuri says, surprisingly. "I know Ketty stayed here when you two worked on my free skate piece. I know you have it in your head I was the key to getting Victor to listen to you. What I don't understand is why you'd go through this much trouble to give Victor his father's letter. Why use me at all?"

 

Interesting, how sharp this boy can be at times. Not that he looks dumb, but rather that he's got such an unassuming air about him that keeps him under the noses of so many. It's part of the reason Nadezhda felt the need to test his mettle, wary of his doe eyes and the gentle slope of his shoulders even at their stiffest. In many ways, despite his insistence otherwise, Viktor is the worse one between the two of them. The moniker of 'Firebird' is well-earned, after all; even back when she was Viktor's age, she'd never failed to let someone know if she disliked them. She's still not sure if Viktor is even acquainted with half the people he's been asked about in interviews, let alone if they're _friends_.

 

"You've seen how stubborn he is," she tells Yuuri plainly. "What you don't know is how much worse he was before you. Fool boy would sooner screw up his leg again than admit to the things he has in the past half hour. Anything to avoid ruining the perfect little fantasy he'd built up." She gives Viktor a dour look. "Even if the façade was starting to crack even before you came along. Your timing couldn't have been more perfect, honestly."

 

Viktor takes another breath to gather himself and gives her a look in return. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

 

"You can trick the rest of the world all your fool heart desires, sorochonok," Nadezhda huffs. "But if you think for a moment that I wouldn't be able to recognize my own son's cadence in that overly pretentious act you were toting about last year, you're a bigger fool than I thought."

 

Viktor blinks, brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? I'll admit, _Stay Close to Me_ was inspired by his earlier works, but it's hardly obvious."

 

Nadezhda scowls at him. "Child, I was there when he was writing _Selene_. Playing with the wording does not make it much different than your father's pitiful mooning. The only difference was that you didn't have anyone in mind when you were the one presenting it and it damn well _showed_."

 

She expects Viktor to get defensive again, to deny her words for the sake of his image. When Viktor frowns and his brow furrows deeper, eyes narrowing, she takes in her own breath to brace herself for the next battle of wit in their years-long war.

 

She does not expect him to mutter, almost awed, "So that _was_ what was missing."

 

Off-kilter, she can only watch as Yuuri blinks at Viktor and asks, "What do you mean?"

 

"I never was able to get _Stay Close to Me_ where I wanted it to be," Viktor says, pressing his free hand to his mouth. "But you did, even with imperfect elements, and then the two of us together made it entirely new. But on my own, it was never enough and I couldn't figure out why for the life of me."

 

Yuuri's brow furrows. "You mean that you just... couldn't get the emotion right?"

 

"I had no frame of reference," Viktor admits. Nadezhda rolls her eyes; of course he didn't, the flighty fool. "Mostly, I just... tried to imagine how my father felt, back when he was still trying to talk to my mother. It just made me wonder why she ever bothered with him."

 

It's odd, watching them interact. When Viktor first left for Japan, she assumed he was trying to play coy while he worked through some arrangement; Yakov's temper tantrums did not change this opinion. She wasn't overly surprised by the rumors that he'd been seen with someone, ever the charmer he tends to be. What got her was watching the Cup of China, how she found herself sitting up straighter and leaning in to squint because there was no way she was actually seeing her Vityen'ka on live television when only months before he was still very much Victor Nikiforov, casually dodging questions over the phone.

 

And then the brash child goes and literally throws himself at the poor boy because he proves to be just as stubborn, with them engaged not even two months later. Gracious sakes.

 

"She bothered with him because he was the first to treat her like a proper lady instead of a fragile little creature," Nadezhda says, popping their little bubble. "She found his bumbling charming. Honest. He had pretty words, but they only flowed out of a pen and not off the tongue like some rake looking for an easy treat."

 

"She sounds nice," Yuuri says, considering, looking down at his and Viktor's still intertwined hands. "I... I still don't know how I feel about your father, but..."

 

Viktor's laugh is soft but hollow. "You and me both, darling. It would've been nice to see what all the fuss was about."

 

Nadezhda sighs, finally letting a slip of a smile through. It will undoubtedly take longer than a few hours to completely melt Viktor's reservations about Anatoli, if he ever fully thaws from the hurt the man put him through, but she knows how much of a fighter Viktor is in comparison. He won't walk away from this visit thinking the worst of his father, and if nothing else the freedom to talk openly to and about her family, past and present and future, is the best way she could be celebrating the holiday.

 

In her kitchen the phone rings, left ignored. When she listens to her voice messages later, she hears the louse start to talk and immediately deletes it. Instead of fuming over it as she would have ordinarily done, she sinks into her chair, pleased with the more pleasant exchange she and Viktor had when he and Yuuri finally needed to head back home.

 

"So, how _did_ Yuuri manage to charm you, of all people?" he'd tried, not even attempting to be subtle about his questioning despite Yuuri's own squeak of protest when he realized what was being discussed. "It's not because he's like Papa, is it?"

 

And Nadezhda cackled, grinning so wickedly at Viktor he balked at her. "Oh no, Vityen'ka," she told him gleefully. "Not with his mouth! _You_ , on the other hand, are every bit your father's son!"

 

* * *

 

It has been far too long since Nadezhda's been on an international flight.

 

She would wonder how she even ended up getting seated in business-class for an airline despite Viktor's complaints about their efficiency, but that would imply she did not see her grandson's tricks coming when Lilia presented her with a ticket to Boston, frowning in suspicion.

 

"Victor wouldn't explain," Lilia told her, looking cross. "Do you know what he is planning, Nadya?"

 

Nadezhda did not, and so she, Lilia, and Yakov all chose to keep their guards up while finishing preparations for the week they'd spend in America.

 

The flight is not as bad as things used to be, admittedly. The seats are more comfortable, even if they are not the sort of comfortable Nadezhda would consider good enough for the many long hours she's expected to be sitting. The food's decent enough. Most of the attendants don't recognize her, simply assuming her to be some well-bred old woman, which is pleasant. There's still a strange emphasis on champagne, which she's never been overly fond of to begin with, but that's ignorable.

 

She tries her best to sleep through as much of the flight as possible, not willing to listen to the people around her. It works less than she'd like, attendants checking up on her as if they're concerned that she won't wake up. Her dry comment about how the amount of fun they must have doing the same to her peers in economy is met with awkward silences and quick exits that she sneers at before attempting to sleep again.

 

At some point in the morning hours she's poked awake and she immediately grouses about no one working on this plane having any manners. She hears a snort, muffled as it is, and mentally retracts the statement.

 

"And why is my twenty eight year old grandson harassing an old woman who can't get a full night's rest on this damn flight?" she asks curtly.

 

Viktor smiles at her with a scrunch of his nose she remembers all too well from his childhood. It does not quell her concerns that he's up to something.

 

"Just curious about how well you're taking the flight, Babulya," Viktor answers lightly. And _that_ tone never gets any less suspicious. "We'll be landing in Boston soon. We were wondering if you wanted lunch at the airport or to check in first and eat somewhere together later."

 

There's a grumble from the seats in front of her. "Vitya, it's too early for your chattering. Go back to sleep!"

 

Nadezhda ignores him, as does Viktor. "We're landing close to noon, yes? Ask me again then." She squints at him, frowning at the odd toss of his hair and the way his mouth seems just a bit swollen. "And fix yourself up proper if you're getting up at this hour for a tumble about! The whole point is that people don't actually know for sure!"

 

Yakov jerks up in his seat with a scandalized, "Nadya!" that startles Lilia awake. As Lilia grouses and tries to blink away her tiredness, Yakov continues to sputter angrily, "Vitya, I had Yura between you two for a reason! We are literally on the flight to Worlds, you can't be--!"

 

"Yura wanted the window!" Viktor insists, clearly trying to ignore the faint flush on his face. "You don't want me to deprive him of life's little joys, do you?"

 

Lilia growls, "Such as waking up at five-thirty in the morning to canoodle in the lavatory?"

 

There's a moment of tense quiet, then, "I see you're all in dire need of more beauty sleep. I'll leave you alone until we land."

 

" _Victor_!"

 

"Yakov," Lilia groans as Viktor flees with as much dignity as one can have given the circumstances, "don't bother. Victor is a lovesick fool, but he has proven he is not _that_ stupid."

 

Yakov gives her a wild-eyed look. "You say that, and yet he's off contorting himself in a tiny bathroom to--!?" He can't even finish, he's too worked up.

 

Nadezhda snorts. "He is still that same menace of a child who kept stealing your keys until he could make his own copy. He just has another outlet to entertain himself with nowadays."

 

"A pity for Katsuki," Lilia sighs. "And yet he is the one who decided he was fine with it."

 

Even despite the early morning interruption, the rest of the flight goes well. Nadezhda is less impressed by the landing than she had been the takeoff, but as the flight attendants allow first- and business-class passengers to leave the plane she gives the one hovering nearby a look before getting up herself.

 

She and Lilia talk while they wait for the younger crowd to exit, mostly about what Nadezhda should expect with Yakov interjecting every now and again with corrections. When they do finally walk through the gate, it's with little Yuri stomping ahead with his hood up and a dark scowl on his face, Mila following at his heels with a Cheshire grin. Yakov immediately groans and steps away to lecture them about proper behavior in public, ignoring when Yuuri and Viktor come through, Georgi following behind them.

 

Lilia huffs in reproach at the sight of them pressed side-to-side. Nadezhda makes a point to look them both in the eye and raise a brow at them. Viktor pretends to not notice and Yuuri flushes bright and ducks his head.

 

"I certainly hope you two will not need chaperones the rest of this week," Lilia scolds in Yakov's lieu, frowning at them. "At the very least, could you not wait until we arrived at our accommodations to indulge in such activities? Imagine having to explain an injury obtained in such a manner because you were impatient!"

 

The two glance at each other before nodding sheepishly, their grips tightening and pulling together closer. Nadezhda sighs and shakes her head at them, only glancing aside at the movement of Georgi shuffling around them and doing his own pretending that he has no idea what's going on.

 

Yakov finally lets Mila and little Yuri go on ahead, both of them elbowing each other and rushing for another gate; Nadezhda hears something about Kazakhstan before they're too far off to make out. When he turns he zeroes in on Viktor, scowl still dark even if his ears are pinking at the memory of what happened hours before.

 

"And you!" he snaps, jabbing a finger at Viktor. "I made you share a room with Yuri before, and I can and will make you do it again! No fooling around right before or during a competition!"

 

Nadezhda gives Georgi a mild look as Yakov continues to soapbox. "I see he's stopped trying to foist my grandson off on you."

 

Georgi makes a face. "Yura is... more effective, if only because he acts as if Victor will corrupt Yuka if they're alone too often."

 

Nadezhda hoots. What a ridiculous child, that boy is. "And how well is that going for him, given he can't stop them from going home together?"

 

"According to Victor, Yura just invites himself over and monopolizes Yuka's attention for the evening." Georgi laughs wearily. "Imagine, a year ago the boy wouldn't go near him outside the rink, and now he's more or less following him home like a grumpy stray cat."

 

Well, Nadezhda think wryly, watching as Viktor finally manages to escape Yakov's venting with Yuuri at his heels. Even without Anatoli's involvement, it seems Viktor's still made himself a home out of what he could.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps the reason this is all as big a deal as it is, is because Nadezhda has not actually seen Viktor skate in person since he was a boy. It is partially because Viktor wanted to earn his own reputation and not ride on hers, entertaining to see a slip of a teenager huff about it but far more aggravating when dealing with a grown man who insists on talking in circles. She doesn't care to put up with all the traveling, the crowds, the loud noises and cameras and all the newer distractions she doesn't bother keeping track of anymore. She did her time and hadn't been fond of it then, either. Going through more of it just because her grandson -- who didn't even _want_ her there in case people made assumptions about how he got Yakov as a coach -- decided to go pave his own path was laughable.

 

And yet here she is, standing next to Lilia as they watch the skaters prepare themselves for the next few days, wondering why she's even involved in this so deeply after so many years not being directly included in any of this.

 

"Fifteen years, he's shooed me away," she mutters, and Lilia huffs with a small curl of a smile on her lips. "And suddenly he decides that I absolutely need to be front and center to everything he's done."

 

"He has been pushing Katsuki as hard as he usually pushes himself, according to Yakov," Lilia says. Nadezhda spares her a curious glance. "There was a lot of yelling until Katsuki came up and said he was done with his break. I don't think Yakov's been so speechless in years."

 

Nadezhda snorts. "I have no idea how that boy managed to find himself someone who can outpace him. I didn't even think that was possible, given how much he tired us all out!"

 

"It is the one good thing about Minako Okukawa, I'll admit," Lilia sighs, as if it pains her to admit any form of defeat. "She was something of a demon when she got going. You would never suspect her of being able to drink half a full bar under the table and then spin near-perfect pirouettes the next morning."

 

"I am finding myself more and more fascinated with this woman, the more I hear of her," Nadezhda admits. "She seems fun!"

 

Lilia makes a noise. "She is soft on Katsuki. It shows in his carriage; he is too delicate for the cutthroat nature of the ballet. Her sacrificing him to ice skate instead of intensifying his training seems to be one of her rare mercies."

 

Honestly, knowing Yuuri's temperament like she does after testing it so much in the past few months, Nadezhda thinks he could've done just fine in ballet if he really wanted to. He, much like Viktor, just preferred ice skating to the alternatives available to him. Being part of a group involves constant compromise and acceptance that you will never have you for yourself; that would be a special form of hell for people who burn too brightly to dim themselves for the sake of the whole. Viktor never took a shine to his ballet training for a reason, after all, whereas Yuuri seems to have done especially well in it.

 

Then again, Nadezhda is sure if Viktor had gotten himself entangled with some snooty danseur with a pretty face, she'd be a lot less inclined to give him the benefit of a doubt and instead trust her first instinct that Viktor only picked the first interesting, not unattractive person who knew to leave him alone every now and then just to get her off his back. The fact he and Yuuri are as cuddly as a pair of puppies and twice as adoring of each other is as entertaining as it is bemusing.

 

The sound of low heels approaches, though Nadezhda doesn't turn to look and neither does Lilia. There are a number of female coaches and choreographers here, and a few male ones who simply prefer the small boost of height to appear taller and more distinguished. Yakov is one of them, though he'd never admit to it. However, the footfalls tap too softly to the concrete, and though there are many talented young folk here Nadezhda is clueless as to who other than Lilia could have that light gait.

 

"Well," she hears, and from the corner of her eye Nadezhda sees Lilia blink before settling her face in a mild grimace. The woman speaks English, but the light lilt of her accent is very familiar; Nadezhda can't place where, though, and it bothers her. "I can't say I expected to see you here so early, Lilia."

 

Lilia draws in a breath and turns to the woman who'd joined them on the sidelines with her head held high, and Nadezhda chances her own dignified glance. She's built like Lilia but shorter, long hair of a rich chestnut-brown with little but traces of gray framing her face to belie her age, which at first glance implies she's barely ten years Viktor's senior, if that. Another dancer, then. Still, though, what is it about her accent that's making Nadezhda's ear itch?

 

"Minako Okukawa," Lilia says, a sort of begrudging respect in her tone. "A surprise to see you here at all, seeing as you are part of no one's team."

 

Nadezhda snaps her fingers. "You are Yuuri's ballet teacher, then. From his hometown, I'd wager?"

 

Minako raises a brow at her. She's had her fair share of others with Nadezhda's attitude and none of her confidence, apparently. "Yes, Yuuri is mine. He'll argue otherwise since he's not currently my student, but he has been the star of my studio for many years." An assessing look, quick and sharp as she turns the question around with, "And you are... Nadezhda Nikiforova, am I right? I've heard you've been something of a recluse since your retirement."

 

"I had little reason to continue playing nice with the imbeciles up in the Cabinet after my son passed," Nadezhda says. "It's not as if they miss me, though their replacements seem to be a bit daft about it."

 

Lilia folds her arms. "The curse of a musician, apparently. As long as you can hold an instrument, you can be called upon."

 

"So the louse keeps implying," Nadezhda gruffs. Minako barks a bitter laugh of her own.

 

"You'd think they'd leave an old woman alone," she says, shaking her head. "Ah, I guess the fact they can't keep plying their dancers and skaters with your music gets them annoyed. I still get letters occasionally from my own government's Cabinet asking if I'd be willing to take on a teaching position in Tokyo. But they're less pushy with me because hey, me sticking to my roots in Hasetsu got them Yuuri, so I mostly just get invitations to culture festivals these days."

 

Nadezhda glances at Lilia with a quirked brow, silently asking, and Lilia answers with a skyward glance and a slightly heavier exhale. The woman is decorated, then, just like Lilia; no wonder Lilia's so strict with Yuuri in turn. She expects Yuuri to be at least fractionally worth the time and effort Minako's put into him over the years.

 

Minako looks up with pursed lips and curious eyes as some of the skaters move off the ice en masse, all chattering and smiling together. Viktor and Yuuri linger behind the rest, circling around each other as her grandson talks with the old fire in his eyes and Yuuri nods along with equal gravitas. At some point, mid-explanation, Viktor comes behind him and physically adjusts Yuuri's shoulders, and ends up trailing off as his hands trail down, before catching Yuuri's hands in his own and then bringing them up to his mouth in a manner that has several eavesdroppers blushing or sputtering into coughing fits. A few cameras go off. At least one is being held by another skater.

 

"Those two are really obnoxious by Japan's standards," Minako grouses, shaking her head. "And you know what's funny? Yuuri's always been a real loner-type growing up, too. He was the _last_ one I expected to get involved with a touchy foreigner. But does he care about that? Nope, because it's his beloved Victor!"

 

Her tone is amused despite her words. Nadezhda can only presume she's found a kindred spirit of a sort.

 

They watch as Yuuri eventually pulls himself away, still giving Viktor those sweet eyes Nadezhda got too familiar with over the course of the day they spent at her house. He never entirely lets go, letting his pinky stay hooked around Viktor's as they finally step off the ice together. Some of the other skaters laugh at them as they help each other into their guards, though little Yuri is standing aside and grumbling to the offered ear of a stoic-looking boy taller than him but not by much. _Children_. Despite everything that's happened in her life, Nadezhda is glad she's only ever had the one and that Viktor has no siblings, either. The mere _idea_ of dealing with more than one of him...

 

"I must ask," Nadezhda starts, just as they watch Viktor turn to Yakov in discussion of something. "How did that boy tell you about me? He's always kept it fairly close to the chest, even if he never outright denied it."

 

Minako barks a laugh. "What's there to tell? There's who knows how many Yamadas in Japan. Two famous Nikiforovs in Russia doesn't mean they're related." She pauses as Lilia looks at her askance, disbelief digging itself trails in her face. "No offense. Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence, and surely Victor would've said _something_ if that was the case, right?"

 

Nadezhda stares for a long minute, glancing sidelong at Viktor, then snorts. "There are other Nikiforovs in Russia, yes, but Viktor is in fact the last of the line that made a name for ourselves with violins."

 

Minako blinks once, twice, thrice before her face levels out and she turns her head towards Viktor with a cutlass smile and dagger-sharp eyes.

 

"No one to speak for you, huh?" she says with a raised voice through clenched teeth, and Nadezhda bites back a howl of laughter as Yuuri turns at the sound, catches sight of Minako's expression, and immediately throws himself between her and Viktor with a shrill laugh and panicked aside glances for an escape. She doesn't understand a _word_ as Yuuri starts sputtering in Japanese and pushing Viktor away towards the other skaters congregating around the other set of double doors, being entirely too like her ridiculous grandson and bodily keeping himself between him and Minako. Minako doesn't seem as amused by it as Nadezhda, either; she just yells louder, raising a shaking fist at their retreating forms.

 

Lilia sighs. "I said it once before, and it still stands: those two are as bad as each other."

 

"I _knew_ I recognized his damn hand gestures from somewhere!" Minako hisses as she turns back, face dark. "And Yuuri most likely knew, too, the little brat!"

 

"Your little brat's still wanting to marry mine somehow, so at least we know they're matched well," Nadezhda tells her, tone dry.

 

Minako groans, rubbing the heel of her palm to her brow bone in an attempt to avoid smudging her makeup. "I need to keep a better eye on them. Yuuri _says_ he's not going to do anything rash, but he was completely okay with getting married in a foreign country a few months ago and I know him too well to think he's going to be any less okay with it after living with Victor _alone_ for all that time. If I have to remind him about how heartbroken his parents would be that he eloped on them, so be it!" She squints out of her other eye. "Especially since Victor couldn't be bothered to introduce you to us properly! The nerve of that guy, after everything we did for him!"

 

Nadezhda hoots to herself as Lilia sighs and taps at her elbow. "My grandson has his reasons for keeping our relationship vague," she tells Minako. "I even agree with most of them. However, I will not say no to getting to know the family he clearly became so enamored with while staying abroad."

 

With one last scowl tossed over her shoulder, Minako sets her shoulders and smiles primly at Nadezhda. "Of course. Lucky for Yuuri, I came with a bit of surprise myself this trip. I'd love to let you be the first to see it."

 

Lilia huffs in amusement. "Pettiness is hardly a beautiful trait, Minako Okukawa."

 

"Not with that attitude," Minako shoots back just as dryly sweet. "Pure skill means nothing when you don't know what to do with it."

 

"It appears that you are still of the notion that youthfulness is the only beautiful trait worth maintaining." Lilia raises a brow at her, lifting her chin and exaggerating her height advantage.

 

Nadezhda is remembering why she avoided ever agreeing to play in an orchestra even when the chance had been dropped in her lap many a time over the years. Even with the teasing lilt of their conversation, the two ballerinas are exhausting to listen to with their banter-slash-bickering.

 

She turns her attention instead to watching the skaters finally file out of the rink, watching as Viktor and Yuuri get buffeted by the others of their apparent circle of friends. She distantly recognizes Christophe from his small handful of visits to Viktor's apartment (Nadezhda does remember barging in once to find a man she hadn't recognized blinking at her, robe barely covering his parts, and then hollering over his shoulder for Viktor in the same style of French Elena used; Viktor had immediately set the record straight with her that he was not sleeping with his guest, just that apparently said guest was being willfully obtuse about how undergarments worked) and dropping into the center to maintain his own practices, but the others are far less recognizable.

 

Still, they're all close in a manner Nadezhda hasn't seen in Viktor in years, most insisting on staying on the fringes of the group and a select core pressed in close. Plans are being made, likely for what to do the rest of the afternoon and evening, and in a city like Boston and most of them knowing conversational English it gives them freer rein than usual.

 

So many people, and Viktor still hopes to maintain his five-year streak this week. Even though he trained two of his competitors, even though one of his few good friends in the business has only just managed to best him several weeks ago, even with the apparent insistence between him and Yuuri that only a certain type of gold medal "counts" towards solidifying their eventual marriage--

 

Ah.

 

Oh, Viktor. Ever the clever little storyteller even in times like this, isn't he?

 

"'May, like Atalanta instead, your precious gold lead you to a happiness equal to what once was mine'," Nadezhda murmurs to herself, shaking her head. "The first two apples don't count when it's the third that wins the race, after all."

 

* * *

 

It has been a loud, long, and frankly annoying week, but she can't help but admit there's a certain smugness settling over her when she watches the faces of the crowds twist and morph in awe and disbelief when Viktor plows through the other, cockier competitors who think that because Christophe beat him once that he'd been finally, permanently knocked off his pedestal. These people who call themselves fans and experts on her grandson clearly are more delusional than she'd expected if they thought his pride would react to the step down the podium as a panicked downward spiral.

 

By the end of the first day of competition, Viktor's sitting pretty on a reclaimed world record, much to little Yuri's seething complaints Nadezhda can hear from her seat in the stands. Evidently, Mila tells her since she's not skating until the day after, Viktor admires all the effort Yuri's put into making the choreography all his own, but Yuri is still favoring flairs to elevate his technical scores over presentation. He'd also thrown too much of himself into the Grand Prix Finals, and had been petering as his still-developing body screeched at him to slow down one way or another. As impressive as it'd been for a fifteen year old boy to win the Grand Prix Finals on the year of his Senior Debut, he'd simply pushed himself too hard and needed time to recuperate.

 

In comparison, Viktor had everyone on the edge of their seats as he airily followed along to his foolish excuse of a program that had once nearly cost him his career, now floating to it with such practiced ease that the damned blindfold comes off as more of a taunt than a handicap. Nadezhda can admit it's impressive, but considering that she's learned that Yuuri does nearly similar almost every time he's on the ice because he gets nervous with contact lenses, it's not as impressive as she thinks it could be.

 

And speaking of Yuuri, his... show had been probably the most fun to watch, even if she'd been picking apart the music in the back of her mind. The use of a smokier Blumgren aside -- she distantly remembers the loud bickering her own family had with them, drinking and howling as they ribbed each other over tonal quality and woods -- Nadezhda finds herself biting her cheek at the dumbfounded and flustered faces scattered liberally over the stands. Yuuri is a lovely boy who cleans up nicely with the right care and polish, but really? How repressed are some of these people that a light touch of rouge and some extra kohl on the eyes is enough to make them shift in their seats?

 

(Nadezhda hears later from a beleaguered Lilia that _commotions_ happened in the back halls while the skaters were getting ready. Apparently little Yuri was on the prowl with his spritzer and ended up playing bouncer for Yuuri when some of the more curious and potentially devious skaters tried to peek on him. Viktor, halfway with throwing on his appropriate coach credentials and annoyed at the peeping toms, tried to take over and was summarily refused entrance as well due to not being trusted "to keep it in [his] pants, I _know_ you had your tongue down his throat at least twice today," according to the stubborn and slightly overprotective boy.

 

She finds herself liking this loud, temperamental child much better now that he's finally learning some manners.)

 

The day of the free skate dawns with a flurry dropping about ten centimeters' worth of snow onto the ground overnight, which is apparently typical for this part of the country. The reporters and newscasters are louder and more obnoxious as a result, trying to rile up the audience like they need to do anything besides sit and watch a performance. The skaters are largely unaffected, focused on ensuring their free skates are impressive enough to come out on top.

 

Viktor will be last, as per the usual rules for these things. So while there are less coming in today, twenty four to the forty from before, it's still going to be a long hour or so before anyone Nadezhda is personally interested in starts going on.

 

Some of them are vaguely familiar, not that she paid a lot of attention if Viktor or either of the Yuris weren't present out of courtesy for Lilia's foray into mentorship. Some have the same problem as little Yuri, pushing too hard too early and paying for it now that the season's at its grand finale. Some buckle under the pressure and make simple mistakes that cost them too much at this point. Some rise to the occasion, throwing everything they are into their performances. All give it their best effort, but as is the nature of competitions only one can truly win.

 

Little Yuri is up first of the three she's intending to focus on, still seething about Victor stealing back his record. The look on his face burns with indignance even from where Nadezhda sits and she snorts, wondering how this noisy little child plans on intimidating everyone who doesn't know his temper better off and away from the podium. He is young, and he does have more room to grow than the rest of the competitors, but as of now he is simply not experienced enough to best Victor -- and that is even without assuming Victor can still pull his usual tricks.

 

Because he's so young and self-righteous, his disappointment in himself when he steps off the ice is palpable. Yakov claps an anchoring hand to his shoulder before starting to yap at the boy, who makes such a typical face for an annoyed teenager in return that several people start laughing. His announced score is as expected, and though Yakov continues to stand as a very disgruntled rock the buzz of the audience rises in anticipation for the rest of the skaters.

 

Yuuri comes next after two others, that boy from Thailand that had been hanging around them fairly frequently and the scruffy-looking boy from the Czech Republic. The crowd cheers loud, and she pretends she's not smug about it even when she feels the eyes of her grandson and his coach on her almost immediately. Viktor's attention is only on her briefly, and despite Yakov looming behind him to hurry up and prepare for his turn coming shortly after he takes his sweet time cooing with Yuuri about whatever he does to handle this sort of thing. All Nadezhda's gotten from this trip is that Viktor's go-to continues to be smothering anything unpleasant with silvery words; not very innovative, that one.

 

Despite his nerves, Yuuri does remarkably well. He keeps his strides long and loose, every movement done with intention. The audience is hushed into near silence save for a handful of those who cannot help themselves, scattered applauses for each successful landing of a jump or collective gasps at a particularly refined, graceful movement. Viktor has given up all pretenses of preparing for his go, eyes locked firmly on Yuuri and ignoring Yakov's increasing attempts to get him to focus. If Yuuri weren't so captivating to watch in motion, Nadezhda would find more entertainment looking at Viktor's face; his expressiveness is almost comparable to how he'd been before he'd gotten so buried in his image.

 

With Yuuri's finish and the time spent to clear out the rink of thrown gifts, he and Viktor meet halfway and seem to again exchange a few words before smiling soppily at each other and reluctantly parting. Yakov, spread out too thin today, throws a desperate look towards Lilia and she sighs before striding to sit next to Yuuri at the Kiss and Cry while Yakov finishes herding Viktor to the ice. Nadezhda is sure there are words being shared down there about Viktor's foolishness regarding this coaching agreement, as he's found something new to complain about every time it manages to come up in conversation.

 

Yuuri's scores are announced, there are cheers (some sections louder than others), Viktor beams from where he stands next to the barrier and everyone laughs as Yuuri darts over for one last, quick exchange before Viktor is sharply urged by Yakov to go finish what he started. Cameras do not have enough time to zoom in on them this go-around, to the disappointment of the audience. It's probably for the best that Viktor's fiancé is just as used to this nonsense as he is, even if he is visibly more uncomfortable with it.

 

As the hubbub dies down and Viktor makes his way to the center of the rink, Nadezhda takes in his appearance. Unlike the silvered, feathery appearance of his short program costume, this one has more of a sleek, golden design. If anything it looks closer to the armor of the conquistadors of long ago, during the Age of Exploration, which probably is where Viktor got his inspiration from, to be honest. As annoyed as _The Gatekeeper Watches_ makes her for the sheer amount of trouble it's caused, _You Who Would Seek Glory_ is ultimately what worsened Viktor's condition into what it became back then.

 

She hates to admit it, but perhaps Viktor was right in choosing these terrible old pieces of his for his sudden return. It fits his apparent love of misdirecting everyone with the least amount of work required, and it serves as a reminder to how far he's come in his career so the next media idiot asking how long he intends to continue with fingers in both pies can go play reporter somewhere else.

 

Naturally, Viktor skates clean. He's smoothed out his initial hiccups so well most but a scant one or two particularly snitty commentators even remember his mistake from Europeans, and before he even releases his ending position the vast majority of the audience is already on their feet with roars and wild clapping. Nadezhda grimaces at the booming volume and tightens her shawl over her head disgruntledly; all the earplugs in the world can't save her in these situations, can they? She should've ignored Viktor's insistence she come this time and watched at home where she's able to control the damn volume.

 

There are plenty of people swearing at the top of their lungs that Victor Nikiforov is back and better than ever, and if Nadezhda's eyes aren't failing her she swears she sees Yuuri make faces at them like he's torn between agreeing profusely as Viktor's self-proclaimed number-one fan and annoyed that it only takes until now for the majority of people to see that. That boy's something else, somewhere between selfless and jealous in his adoration.

 

He actually meets Viktor first off the ice, arms wide open and allowing Viktor to glide right into them as they giggle like schoolboys and Yakov shakes Viktor's skate guards at him. They shuffle to the Kiss and Cry together, Viktor between his coach and his lover, and the gravity of the situation falls over the stadium as everyone waits for the scores to finish tallying. A camera chooses this moment to zoom in on the way Viktor and Yuuri are tightly clinging to each other's hands, Viktor's thumb clearly rubbing over Yuuri's ring.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer starts, sounding confused after an unusually long moment of silence for these things. "Please sit tight, it appears the judges are going over the point totals. I suppose it must be very close!"

 

Viktor's points finally flash up on the scoreboard, and before Nadezhda can register them the entire audience is in an uproar.

 

She can barely make out the announcer's words above the hubbub, but she can see the way Yakov's jaw drops and his eyes pop, the way Viktor's entire body snaps up with his eyes wide and that same ridiculous grin from his first attempt at skating, the way Yuuri viscerally gasps and presses a palm to his mouth as if holding back a scream of his own. She sees the way Viktor and Yuuri both snap their heads towards each other at the same time, the shake in Yuuri's hand as he pulls it down and mouths disbelief at Viktor, the rapid nodding he gets from Viktor in response and the fat, happy tears welling up in her grandson's eyes that he wipes away with the heel of his hand and a laugh.

 

As order tries to take control of the arena once more, Nadezhda finally looks up at the scoreboard to see for herself the full scope of what's just happened.

 

Viktor's score is point-zero-three _below_ Yuuri's, the only apparent difference being that Yuuri's traditionally higher PCS has finally given him the edge over his competitors' technically higher base scores, and Viktor's astronomically high standards for his work and his art above them all.

 

Attention turns back to the Kiss and Cry with Yakov's yelling and the suddenly louder screams of the fans around her. She flicks her attention down, blinks, then sighs and wonders again how her fool of a grandson gets anything done, because he's now flat on the ground behind the bench and Yuuri is on top of him, both of them clinging tightly to each other and, according to the camera who zooms in on them, laughing and crying and kissing without a care to whoever sees them. Minako's run up as close as she can with another murderous look and screeches at them, but they clearly are in their own little world and aren't paying anyone else a single lick of attention.

 

Fans are still screaming, either at each other or in general. Nadezhda doesn't even try to pretend she understands the offense of some of them. It's more entertaining to watch the doors leading to the back halls of the center burst open and several other skaters bustling in, most of them laughing or cheering in their own right. Even little Yuri seems pleased about something, even as he goes through his usual motions of distaste for the public displays of affection being broadcasted for everyone to see.

 

Viktor has managed to gain back one of his records and has defended his total score record, but by mere fractions of a point he's finally been dethroned as reigning world champion. For the first time in six years, Viktor's name is only attached to the gold medalists of the Grand Prix and the World Championships as an accessory, a choreographer at worst and a coach at best.

 

And all Nadezhda can do is laugh to herself and think, wry, that he really did manage to prove he knew now how to not let his obsessions take over his life and potentially ruin him once more. That, and how Anatoli really would have wanted to see the man Viktor grew into himself, just to rest his own nervous heart.

 

* * *

 

"By the way, Minako-sensei," Yuuri finally asks once the reporters and fans have been chased off until the Exhibitions tomorrow, "what was the surprise you said you had?"

 

Nadezhda turns to pretend she's distracted by something, privately already laughing to herself about how this is bound to turn out.

 

Minako whips around on her heel to jab her finger in Yuuri's face, and he yelps and stumbles back into Viktor. "One you are _very_ lucky I brought with me right now!" She then promptly switches to Japanese to keep lecturing him, leaving him looking more contrite than he probably would have been had she kept the whole spiel in English.

 

Viktor watches on, arms curled around Yuuri's shoulders in silent support. He rests his chin on a wrist, leaning into Yuuri with an almost indiscernible nuzzle. It's fairly obvious he does understand at least part of the tirade, given the small twitches in his otherwise peaceful expression. She would ask, but Nadezhda is aware of how much her grandson thrives in trial-by-fire situations. He'll interrupt if he thinks the woman's going too far, and this seems to be as normal an exchange between her and Yuuri as Nadezhda's own bickering with Viktor tends to be.

 

Instead she watches the door from the corner of her eye, the shapes just on the other side of it huddled together and peering in every now and again. Minako's little surprise is getting antsy, it seems. She should hurry and let the real fun start.

 

"By the way," Minako finally finishes, switching back to English as she straightens her posture and flicks back some hair. "You should really call your family. Let them tell you how proud they are of you, and what to expect in the near future." She glances towards Nadezhda, a faint rise to her brows. "You do plan on coming back to Hasetsu at least for a little bit this summer, right? Maybe not with your dog-child, but the season's good as over for both of you unless you decide to do some ice shows."

 

Viktor makes a face at Minako's description of his dog that might be concealed laughter, even as Yuuri groans and gives her a tired look. "Please stop calling Maccachin that. He's much better behaved than most of the kids I've been dealing with recently."

 

"The Novices at the rink do adore you, though," Viktor chimes in. "They might get even more upset at you disappearing for a few weeks than they were with me leaving."

 

"Their coach already hates me," Yuuri whines, leaning back into Viktor. "She's seriously scary."

 

"Aliona is just mad you can get them to listen faster than she can," Viktor assures him. "I told you before, you're new and interesting to them. Of course you're their favorite right now."

 

Nadezhda snorts. "I'm sure the sweets you've been sneaking them have nothing to do with it, sorochonok."

 

"That would be sabotage," Viktor insists demurely, almost politely turning up his nose at her. "I am above such tricks."

 

"Which is why I've been hearing about the return of the zefirs from Yakov, surely," she shoots back with a cocked brow. That had been an interesting phone call to receive. Even Yakov wasn't sure if he should be mad at it or just bemused. He settled on annoyed for having to assure his fellow coach that the incident wouldn't repeat itself too often.

 

There's a faint flash of annoyance in Viktor's eyes and a small screw of his mouth, but he catches himself and takes a breath. Nadezhda raises her other brow at him, fully aware of what he just swallowed down. He pouts back, looking petulant.

 

Minako, ignorant of the past few months' quarrel, simply turns away after giving Yuuri another firm look to keep him in place. For his part, Yuuri simply shrinks back into Viktor and spares the two of them a plaintive look, possibly a plea for both of them to behave. Nadezhda supposes she can't blame the young man for that given their company, though she's sure that Minako is only just about to reveal her surprise for Yuuri now.

 

She huffs, straightening her back and tucking her shawl around her tighter. This should be an experience.

 

"She is really determined to make sure you honor your promise to not just run off into the sunset with me, isn't she?" Viktor wonders aloud.

 

"I'm really starting to consider it at this point," Yuuri admits with a grumble. Nadezhda catches his eye as she gives him a disbelieving look and he immediately backpedals, stammering, "B-because, I mean, basically everyone's here already! But she's right, it wouldn't be fair to my family, not when they've done so much for me and they love _you_ so much..."

 

Viktor makes an odd noise and Nadezhda nearly gawks at the sight of her shameless, ever-collected grandson turning a bright pink as he buries his face in Yuuri's shoulder. The boy goes openly gallivanting about for years, gets worse now that he's settling down, and yet a careless admission like _that_ is enough to rattle him. Unbelievable.

 

"We can have more than one wedding," she catches Viktor murmuring to Yuuri. Never mind then, he's still the same little menace he's always been. "Something informal now, a proper celebration later?"

 

"Forget Minako-sensei killing us," Yuuri mutters back, sounding almost reluctant. "Phichit and Chris will be after our heads, too, with how much they keep bugging us about it."

 

"We'd need witnesses anyway. They can have their embarrassing speeches at the second one if they behave."

 

"Chris might be able to keep quiet, but Phichit jumps the gun a lot when he's excited. Remember the hotpot restaurant in Beijing?"

 

"You two do realize that I'm old, not deaf, yes?" Nadezhda says louder than her usual tone. The both of them jolt in place and give her identical startled looks. "Do both of you lose your heads like this often when you're allowed to be alone together? It's no wonder little Yura feels the need to chaperone!"

 

Nadezhda would like to say they both look contrite for needing to be scolded, but Viktor looks the same as he ever does, humor twinkling in his eyes, and even Yuuri titters despite his nervousness. Needy boys, the both of them.

 

"Yuuri? Vicchan?"

 

All at once, the two of them snap their heads back towards the doors, and Nadezhda hoots quietly to herself as he watches them take in the sight of the nervous-looking, middle-aged couple being led up to them by a smirking Minako. They're good people, if Nadezhda read them right the other day while Yuuri was off herding Viktor away from Minako's wrath. It's not hard to see where Yuuri's own tendencies come from, except for maybe his spark of a temper.

 

Yuuri looks like he's about to start crying again, eyes wide and lip wobbling. "Okaasan? Otousan?" he manages weakly in his native tongue, words Nadezhda doesn't know but can recognize even without translation given the context. "Mi-Minako-sensei, you didn't...?"

 

Minako huffs and steps out from Yuuri's mother's other side, a hip cocked and her knuckles resting against it. "Victor gave you a second chance to prove yourself by doing this. I know you too well to think you wouldn't push yourself as hard as you could to show you'd earned everything you worked for, you silly brat."

 

"The onsen--"

 

Yuuri's father barks out a laugh and a lighthearted explanation, one Nadezhda recalls from the other day being that they'd been able to take on a couple of new hires for their business after Yuuri left, and also courtesy of Yuuri's sister's friends reaching out in support. He sounds nothing like Anatoli despite being a few years younger, too carefree and at ease compared to her son's skittish demeanor. Yuuri's mother titters and pats her husband's arm, much like Yuuri had been just moments ago with Viktor, but the air about her is calm and warm.

 

She looks to her son and Viktor again and smiles, wide and sweet, and repeats, "Yuuri, Vicchan. You both were so good!"

 

Unbelievably, the two of them immediately cave under her praise and when she steps forward with her arms open, they're both shuffling in to hug her tight. She squeaks at the combined pressure, but laughs and pats both their backs as best she can. Minako watches on with a shake of her head, pleased with herself and teasing the two of them with a small curl of a smile on her face.

 

It's no small wonder that Viktor found himself drawn to this family after neglecting himself for so long. Anyone who would choose to forego affection of any substantial sort would soon grow starved of it, no matter what their background. She's only glad Viktor discovered this before it'd been far more difficult to reverse the damages to him; she'd already buried one son, two if one considered the amount of care she poured into her brother all those years ago. Another would have been nigh-impossible to endure, especially in her old age.

 

They release Yuuri's mother from their grip, and the woman smiles at them fondly as she places a hand on their cheeks. By her voice and the way both boys nod along and smile Nadezhda can only presume that she's still praising them, though she's very subdued in her gestures. As she watches them, Minako and Yuuri's father sidle over, and she shifts her footing to allow them a better view of her angle of all this.

 

Yuuri's father says something, half in English and half in Japanese, and Minako snorts and translates, "Toshiya wants to know if you plan on coming to Japan for the wedding. Since he gave Victor some special treatment when he came, he doesn't mind doing the same for you."

 

"It remains to be seen, unfortunately," Nadezhda tells him, and waits as Minako translates it back to him to continue. "Getting here was hard enough on me, and travel's better these days. Even if your son and my grandson have talked up your hot springs, it won't do me much good coming back to Russia after."

 

"True, true," Yuuri's father admits, but despite the disappointment he seems understanding. "Very hard for elders, long travel is."

 

Viktor freezes in place, eyes wide as he pulls away from Yuuri's mother to skim over the group. Nadezhda gives him an odd look, all too familiar with his more wild expressions and wary of one of them suddenly popping up.

 

"Yuuri," he says finally, a twitch of a smile creeping onto his face. " _Yuu_ -ri, my grandmother's here. _Your_ parents are here, as is Minako. We could get Mari on a call and grab Chris and Phichit on the way out. Maybe Yurio if he agrees to behave!"

 

...That boy better not be implying what Nadezhda thinks he's implying.

 

To his detriment, Yuuri seems to catch on, and his eyes widen as well as he does his own sweep over the group. "But-- Victor, now? What about-- there's so much preparation involved, could we really just...?"

 

Viktor catches Yuuri's flailing hands in his, that troublesome grin settling in too comfortably. "Something more showy can happen later. Everything important is here now, and who knows when it'll happen again, if it ever does?"

 

"That's... true, but..." Yuuri gives everyone another once-over before swallowing and closing his eyes. This seems to finally tip off Minako, and she gawks as she steps closer to them with a suspicious frown on her face.

 

"I warned both of you about being too impulsive," she tells them warningly. "You've known each other for technically a little under a year and a half, and were together for _maybe_ half that. You've been engaged for just about three months. Are you absolutely sure you two can't wait another year before doing this?"

 

Viktor, the cheeky little brat, looks directly at Nadezhda and says to Minako, "My grandmother is very adamant about the fact she's at the age she could die tomorrow for no reason. And while I doubt she actually would, she did bring up another point I know she's right about. She's not likely to push herself for a long and tiring flight to Japan, only to have to make the equally long trip back to Russia. She complained enough just getting here, and the flight wasn't nearly as difficult."

 

Nadezhda gives him a sharp look of her own. "Now see here, Vityen'ka--"

 

"Let's do it."

 

Everyone stops and looks at Yuuri. He looks up, that steel sharp in his eyes.

 

"It's the most practical way right now, isn't it?" he continues, focusing on Nadezhda as well. "If Nadya can't make it to Japan, then now is best, after all. This way, she can still be there for Victor and if she wants to join the celebrations later, there won't be as much guilt if she can't make it."

 

"So..." Yuuri's mother hums, sharing a look with her husband. "Now for family, later for everyone? You are happy like that?"

 

Viktor and Yuuri exchange another look, then nod.

 

Yuuri's father barks laugh. "Two parties, it is! We go soon!"

 

Minako sputters a bit, looking between people like she's trying to trace the lines of logic getting tangled here. "Wait, wait. Hiroko, Toshiya!"

 

"I'll grab Chris and Phichit if you grab Yurio," Viktor tells Yuuri, his phone already in one hand as he quickly kisses Yuuri's cheek.

 

Yuuri blinks in disbelief. "Can't I just get Phichit and you get Yurio? I still need to call Mari!"

 

Yuuri's mother calls out something, smiling bright, and Yuuri goes red and mutters something under his breath as he shuffles away. Whatever it is, it warrants Minako screeching _Hiroko!_ and immediately breaking down into cackling laughter. Nadezhda can only imagine what Yuuri's older sister is like, if his mother and almost-aunt still act like giddy schoolgirls themselves.

 

While Nadezhda is watching this devolve into rapid-fire but controlled chaos, she misses the fact Yuuri's father's chosen to stay next to her. She fails to notice this until he chuckles, ending with a long but contented-sounding sigh.

 

"Victor is," he starts, stalling as he considers his word choice, "good for Yuuri. We know that for many years."

 

"Yuuri is good for Viktor, as well," Nadezhda agrees, not sure where the man is going with this. Yuuri's father is nothing like the men she's used to, only like her late son in the fact he's far more content with a less ambitious life than the one his son lives.

 

Yuuri's father shakes his head. "Victor is always Yuuri's most important person, since Yuuri was little," he repeats. "They are-- very close, very fast. Like fate."

 

It's been a long time since Nadezhda's believed in a thing like fate; she won't pretend to understand why people still revere the concept of not being in control of their own lives, but then again she's known most of her own that she's not like the majority of people, either. Superstitions are fine, they're often safeguards or precautions more than anything, but accepting that there are things in life she was never intended to be anything but helpless against is as good as torture to her.

 

"Victor came when Yuuri need him most," Yuuri's father continues. "I see then, he was lonely too. He is sad and hurt when he look at me sometimes. But it is not me he sees, is it?"

 

Nadezhda blinks, gives Yuuri's father another once-over, and though she knows he's nothing like her Tolenka she can't help but scrutinize him as she would have, had he been present as well.

 

"My son didn't know how to handle Viktor," she admits, slow. "He loved him, more than anyone, but Viktor scared him so much. I suppose seeing your relationship with your children was something he wished he still had."

 

Yuuri's father hums. "Yuuri is like that, too. Hard to understand, but good heart." He taps his head with a wry smile. "Patience. He comes back some day, when he is ready."

 

This time, Nadezhda can only just breathe in. It's hard to have patience when time runs so much shorter than average for her.

 

"Perhaps," she says instead. There's no need to dig deeper into a wound that's finally healing. That, too, will take patience to accept it will not be another scar she'll bear to her dying day.

 

She's not entirely sure what is going on, but Viktor pops up with that cheeky smile of his and Nadezhda automatically gives him a look. He ignores it, as he's wont to do when he's this worked up.

 

"Babulya," he chirps, and oh does she know from _that_ tone nothing good's about to come out of his mouth. "You brought something nice to wear, right? We're still looking for someplace to eat afterward, and I don't exactly know if you were planning on attending the banquet after the gala tomorrow."

 

"I have no intention of subjecting myself to that nonsense more than I already have to," Nadezhda tells him gruffly. Still, she concedes, "But yes, I brought something in case. You are very predictable in your behavior if not your actions, sorochonok."

 

Viktor pouts at her, the brief look of mock offense so like his childhood temper tantrums that she can't help but bark a laugh at the sight of it.

 

"Nadya, Victor!" they hear, and they look over to see Yuuri with his family by the doors, eyes flicking towards the bemused-looking maintenance crew trying to clean up around them. "We're going on ahead for now, okay? My parents want to make sure their clothes are good enough!"

 

"We'll follow you soon, Yuuri!" Viktor chimes back, tone warm, and then adds with a teasing lilt, "I have to make sure your taste in ties isn't inherited, after all!"

 

Yuuri makes a face, half exasperated and half hopelessly fond, but still manages to get the nerve to blush and blow a kiss over his shoulder before just about shoving his parents and Minako out the doors. Nadezhda may not be able to understand Yuuri's native tongue, but even she can understand the wheezing roar of a man's delighted laughter and the high tittering of the two women, along with Yuuri's familiar-growing whine.

 

Viktor makes to catch the blown kiss and waves after them, smiling softly, before turning to Nadezhda. His smile dims a little, but it tilts somewhat lopsided, sillier and reminiscent of the boy he once was even as he offers his arm.

 

"Allow me to indulge you one more time, before I'm definitely not your Vityen'ka anymore?" he says, and though it's not the first time Nadezhda's recognized he's grown it's the first she's willing to see him for the young man he's become, and the man he will be from now on.

 

He still has that annoyingly poised carriage to his shoulders that he's needed for his career, though it's hardly something she can blame him for when she'd done similar. He's still pale enough to mostly hide the white scars of his early sharpening mishaps on his fingers, before he figured out the right angle and pressure. He will undoubtedly tell tales over dinner like a member of the fae court, full of half-truths and lies of omission, but still give himself away in the sparkle of his eye now that it's returned.

 

So Nadezhda scoffs, reaching up past his elbow to grab his earlobe. "Don't be daft, you fool boy," she says as he yelps and immediately bends down to avoid tugging, and he gives her a half-wounded look. "You marrying doesn't change that, no matter what you do to upset me. Hasn't Yakov told you countless times not to burn bridges when you get like this? Just because it's me and my grouchy old self, I swear!"

 

"Babulya, please," Viktor whines, "Papa would want you to be nice to me on my wedding day, at least!"

 

"Your father would have a heart attack that you're running off like this because you're too impatient to have a proper wedding," she tells him dryly. "Even if all this is for my sake, it's ridiculous and you know it!"

 

Viktor huffs and Nadezhda releases him, carefully tucking back a lock of pale hair that'd fallen free from the product he'd used to keep it in place all day. It's not the needed detangling of his hair she and Anatoli had to do before her concerts when Viktor was a little boy, but Viktor isn't exactly that little boy anymore, either.

 

"Come along, then," she concedes, and finally tucks her hand around Viktor's bent elbow. "Let's see you be the man you swore to be."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Nadya lives like another twenty years. She also gets convinced to go to the second wedding in Japan, but that may or may not be a separate story that is more about letting Chris and Phichit get their embarrassing best man stories featuring the composer women (Ketty for Yuuri, Theo for Victor) adding their own two cents.
> 
> Additional Notes:  
> \- The line about Atalanta comes from another of Victor's father Anatoli's poems, when I was still debating how much I was willing to write for him. One of these poems, which now is nothing but a few lines of references, refers to Victor as Icarus (for his dangerously high ambition and that it might cost him his life/livelihood), Midas (for the fear of seeing Victor become someone miserably alone while surrounded by wealth in their years apart), and a wish to see him allow himself to be happy again. Atalanta, like the other two names mentioned, is from Greek myth and involves golden apples and beating her in a race for her hand in marriage.  
> \- I debated whether or not it'd make sense to have Toshiya and Hiroko present, but decided to go "screw it there's already a lot of this show that's romanticized, letting Yuuri's parents see him compete in person for a week while Mari enlists her friends to help her out at the onsen is hardly that weird." I liked this result better than trying to get everyone involved in a convoluted Skype/Facetime call at the courthouse.
> 
> Some details lost in editing:  
> \- Elena (Victor's mother) grew up in Switzerland and her parents are technically alive, just estranged to the point that they've met Victor and neither side realized they were related. Much like Anatoli, their own grief of what happened to her eclipsed her desire to stay in theater work, and she had to distance herself from them to keep going.  
> \- Anatoli's book was published about two years before The Fight. Georgi has his own copy and considers it one of his favorite books. Yurio, on the other hand during his brief stint with it, only liked one or two and was annoyed at finding out they were about Victor.  
> \- The zefir thing is the Bad Habit™ Anatoli had that drove Yakov nuts back in the day. The days he'd come pick up Victor himself, he'd sneak the kids sweets when he thought Yakov wasn't looking. He was very much the type who felt kids should be kids.  
> \- Blumgren is another fictional luthier family in this verse who would specialize more in violas and cellos, but do make violins as well. Unlike the Nikiforov line, they are still in business.
> 
> Before this gets any longer: thank you all again, and though I've kind of fallen off the response wagon due to feeling awkward about artificially raising my comment count (I really wish AO3 didn't count the author in the totals) know that it always makes my day to see that people actually read and enjoy my work.


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